The Fox and the Hare
by MarquessaS
Summary: Dean is stalked and caught by a woman with a grudge, but her need for revenge is a tool that a demon finds useful. somewhere post season #1, episode 6, 'Skin'
1. Chapter 1

I originally wrote this story under the penname Guiltypleasure, so that it would be separate from the thread that starts with What Goes Around, Comes Around.

-This story takes place somewhere after the St. Louis incident; the brothers have been running from the law for some time. Dean is stalked and caught by a woman with a grudge, but her need for revenge is a tool that a demon finds useful.

* * *

><p>1<p>

Sam had just finished gassing the car up and had buckled himself in. Dean, returning from the can; came in with a look of pure disgust. "Man, I really hope that graffiti was just brown crayon on the wall in there. That one tops my list so far."

"Your list?"

"Of the grossest gas station cans in the US. I figure triple-A or some travel agency will pay big for that kind of heads up."

Sam snorted. "And pardon the pun."

"Huh-?

"Nevermind."

Dean's feet were obscured by the detritus of their last two days of travel. Coffee cups, fast food bags, candy wrappers, newspapers... There was too much of it to stuff it all under the seat. He grumbled, gathered his arms full and exited again, dumping the lot into the nearest garbage can. He walked back to his open door, dusting off his hands, when he heard a shout—

"DEAN WINCHESTER! Freeze! Put your hands up! NOW!"

He froze in his tracks for a mere second, staring in shocked disbelief at the state trooper training her revolver straight at his centre. Then he snapped to action. "Shit! Sam, gun it!"

Still in neutral, the engine roared to red-line as Sam pulled the parking break and stomped the gas in bewildered panic. It spent precious seconds revving stationary.

Dean dove toward his seat as the trooper opened fire. He slammed against his open door, and stumbled to the pavement as the window shattered above him. "Go! Go! Go!" he shouted, pulling himself in all the way as the Impala lurched forward with smoke spewing from the skidding rear wheels.

Sam floored it, and the Impala defied her age and bolted forward, eight cylinders screaming as she pulled far ahead of the patrol car. "Dean, where now?" he barked, still shocked and turning to his brother in a frantic appeal for direction.

He nearly double footed the brakes then. Dean had both hands clutched to his left side. Blood streamed over his fingers, and more was spattered on the door and dash.

Dean's face was contorted in agony.

"Dean!"

"Don't slow down!" Dean yelled. "Turn right; here!"

Sam did and they hit the dirt side road in a choking cloud of dust, fish-tailing momentarily before the wheels found their footing in the gravel. "Jesus, you're hit! We have to stop-!"

"No we don't! Keep going; left here; now!"

Sam did as he was told, trying to keep the car on the road in the loose, dry stones as he glanced over in shock.

The reality of what had happened was fast making itself apparent to Dean. Adrenalin had given him the brief burst he needed to throw himself into the car, but now he could hardly breathe, as the pain intensified. He held his side tightly. He didn't know the damage yet; only that it hurt beyond words as he curled away from the cold wind blasting through his shattered window. He pressed his feet hard against the floor to stay upright. "Sonofabitch-" he ground out.

"Dean, dammit; let me pull over-!"

"Just keep driving!" he said between gasps. "We have to at least get over the state line or we're screwed!"

* * *

><p>Sam drove like a jackrabbit zigzagging ahead of the fox. Dean barked directional changes every few minutes so that they managed to stay under the radar on back roads. As long as they weren't picked up by air surveillance they were safe so far. After twenty-odd minutes of desperate and convoluted travel they crossed into the adjacent state and Sam searched for a safe zone. They finally ground to a halt in front of a derelict barn. It stood alone in an overgrown pasture, poplar saplings sprouting from it's foundation. Sam hopped out and checked around, and when he was sure it was abandoned, he kicked the rusted gate open, sprinted down and pulled open the sagging doors to peer inside.. Satisfied, he raced back to the car, drove it through the field and eased it into the barn. At least it was shelter for the moment, and they were hidden.<p>

Once safely inside, he shut the car off and pulled the doors closed behind them. He breathed for the first time, it seemed, since the gas bar. He opened the passenger side and eased Dean's seat down.

Dean was still holding his side and groaning through his tightly clenched teeth. "Cops...how'd they know?" he shuddered, as Sam pushed aside his jacket and hiked up his sodden tee-shirt to assess. "How could they-"

Sam shushed him. He saw the extent of the wounds fully now. "Aw man... Dean, this is not good."

Dean's midriff was awash with blood. One bullet had carved a vicious trough across his left side; a second had struck lower, between his last rib and hip. Sam felt for an exit wound, finding none. He rooted around and found the first aid kit and applied the most useful looking bandages. He bound a tensor wrap as tightly as he could around Dean's torso, but was dismayed as he watched them quickly soak through. "Dean, if we don't get to a hospital you'll-"

Dean rose up in panic. "NO! No, Sam! We're all over the freaking radar by now; you can't go near one or you might as well just drive me straight into Leavenworth!"

He grimaced and groaned again, fighting the waves of pain as they washed over him.

The prison was an ugly threat, but the alternative... "Well what, then? Tell me what to do!" Sam cried in panic. "You're bleeding too hard; we can't wait around here!"

Dean barely heard him. "I..I don't know..." he gasped, blacking out. "But no hospital...please-"

"Dean? _Dean_!" Sam shook him, terrified he was dying in front of him. He felt for his pulse, relieved to find it rapid but still strong.

—_calm down, think!- _he berated himself, trying hard to calm down. He knew who he should call. He punched the number with shaking hands. Bobby, he always knew what to do. He prayed for him to pick up. It did, but his momentary relief evaporated.-_The customer is not available-please try again_- He hung up and turned back to Dean. He was unresponsive, and Sam rechecked his pulse, alarmed by his pale skin. He knew Dean was right; any hospital in the vicinity would be on high alert for a gunshot victim; it was a sure thing that he'd be arrested. But if they didn't get to one...

He wished doctors still made house-calls. None of them did that anymore, and walk-in clinics were too public as well; no doubt they'd be warned to watch out for them too. It didn't leave him with many options. He called info again and got the numbers of clinics in the area anyway and took a chance calling the first.

It was as he'd feared. They never went out to the patient, and he was sure her manner changed when he vaguely described Dean's injuries. The nurse suddenly began asking very pointed questions. He stammered, then hung up; afraid they were on to them.

Dean shifted and moaned in the car. Sam put his hand to his bandaged side, hoping the bleeding had slowed. It was saturated and warm. His heart sank, knowing they were in serious trouble now. Sam's eyes pricked with tears of panic and frustration. He wracked his brain, settling on a last-ditch and desperate route. -_Bleeding is bleeding— _he thought. It's all treated the same. He made one more call to information.

Armed with new doctor's name, he called the number he'd gotten. He reached a paging service. Explaining that it was urgent and it was an emergency, he left his cell number. Then he waited in heart-pounding anxiety for them to call back. It felt like an eternity, but at last his phone rang.

"_Dr Macy, here. What's the problem?"_ an efficient-sounding female voice queried.

Sam stammered his reply. "I was…uh...trail-riding. My horse went down; I think he was shot. He's bleeding from his side." He didn't have to feign the distress choking his voice; he was suffocating with it.

She asked him more questions about the animal's condition, got some directions, and assured him she'd drive out immediately. She explained what he needed to do in the meantime. He thanked her, and hung up. He crouched beside his brother, waiting and listening for the sound of her vehicle. Twenty minutes, she's said.

* * *

><p>It was the longest twenty minutes of his life. He checked Dean's pulse obsessively; it was all he could do. He kept his hand pressed hard against his brother's wounds, hoping to keep his life from draining out while they waited. Dean moaned and frowned tightly, rising from his semi-conscious state. He curled up against the pain, but Sam held him flat against the seat, fearful of releasing the pressure. At last he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel at the roadside. Forced to leave Dean's side, he peeked out through the gaps in the barn siding, making sure there were no flashing lights. When he read the wording on the van door, he left the safety of the barn and jogged out to meet her.<p>

She shook his hand firmly. "I'm Beth Macy. You called about a horse that's down?"

Sam nodded tensely. He introduced himself, and explained that he'd gotten the horse into the barn.

"Looks like he's bleeding pretty heavily." she said, noting his red-smeared shirt and hands. "But you got him up and into the barn; that's a good sign. And you think he was shot?"

"Yeah, pretty sure."

She frowned, hauling her field kit out from the van. "Bloody hunters! Every deer season it's the same damned thing; if they're not out proving Darwinism by accidentally shooting each other, they're taking out livestock left, right and center. You're lucky you weren't hit yourself."

He agreed.

He went ahead and pulled the door open slightly, allowing her to enter the barn first. He followed closely, pulling the door closed again behind them.

She stopped when she saw the car. She looked around warily, and realized with alarm that there was no horse apparent. "Ok; what the hell's going on here? Where's that animal?" she demanded.

Beth Macy was a strong woman. She was tall and square-built, and had no trouble looking out for herself. But this was different; she'd been lured to the sticks, alone, and now things were apparently not what she'd been told. She pulled out her cell and almost completed 911 when Sam convinced her to drop it.

Well; his gun did most of the convincing. The shaky hand holding it was less persuasive, but there was no arguing with the weapon while it was pointed at her chest.

"You stupid bastard!" she snarled. "What is it? Drugs? You thought I'd come with a shit-load of tranquilizer or morphine or something?"

"No! No-" Sam stammered. "It's really an injury! I really do need your help!"

"Then why the gun?"

"I had to! Look; he's hurt, I couldn't go anywhere else, and I couldn't take the chance you'd run." Sam gestured towards the car. "I wasn't lying about him being shot. He's bleeding badly, please—"

She glanced at the car, and saw the figure of another young man slumped in the passenger seat. She stared back at him, incredulous. "You must be kidding-!"

Sam pushed the hair from his eyes with a trembling hand. "I'm not. He's been shot, he's bleeding, and you can help him."

She couldn't believe she was hearing this. "You're nuts! I'm a vet, not a bloody doctor! Get your buddy to a hospital, for god's sake!"

"I can't!" Sam roared back. "He's wanted! He'll go to prison if I take him there!"

"So you're some kind of criminals, then! You lie to me, you hold a gun on me, tell me you're wanted; and you expect me to _help_ you?"

Sam could see the hostility; the set of her jaw, her arms crossed. He was screwing this up, and it would cost his brother's life. "Look, I'm sorry...I'm sorry... Please, here, take it." Sam pleaded, tossing the gun to her. "I was never gonna hurt you, I swear. But right now you're the only one who can keep my brother from dying! I'm begging you-" he said, his voice breaking, "Help him!"

* * *

><p>She stared at the gun in her hand with a momentary fascination; more than a little surprised at this turn around. …It wasn't even loaded. She glared at him, then dropped it into the straw and sighed. "Well, I can take a look at him. Get him out of the car, I need more room." She began to haul a few straw bales down, and lay them side to side, forming a raised bed of sorts. It was cleaner at least, than the filthy barn floor...but still rough. "Do you have anything like a blanket in that car?"<p>

"A sleeping bag, in the trunk. I'll get it." He retrieved it and handed it to her, and she unzipped it, laying it over the bales.

Dean was lying back against the lowered seat, half-conscious. Sam woke him gently, telling him they had some help. He turned and nodded, moaning slightly.

Sam carefully pulled him up and slid his arm under his shoulders, then lifted him forward and out. Dean staggered, but couldn't stand, collapsing against him with a cry, Sam anticipated it; he scooped him up under his knees and carried him over to the straw bed.

The vet watched them. She opened her kit and laid her implements out. "Why are you wanted anyway?" she asked coldly. "What did you do?"

Sam sighed and crouched beside Dean, making him as comfortable as possible. There was no point in dodging her question. "My brother, Dean…he's wanted for murder. And now I'll tell you what every fugitive says, so I don't expect you to believe it, but he's innocent; he didn't do what they're accusing him of."

Dean groaned and shuddered as Sam lifted his shoulders and pulled off his jacket. Sam laid his hand gently on his damp forehead for a moment. "He was shot by state troopers a couple of hours ago. At a gas station, in-"

"In Bonneville." she finished for him. "It's all over the news. You Winchester boys are famous."

"Bonnie & Clyde." Dean murmured.

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him. –_smart-ass; even now_- Must be the oldest. The other one; he seemed softer...she didn't miss the tender concern he showed his brother.

Sam brought Dean up to speed. "Dean, this is Doctor Macy. She's gonna check you out, ok?"

Dean groaned and opened his eyes, trying to focus. "You're a doctor..?"

"That's right. Well, technically. Dr. Beth Macy, DVM." she said, smiling wickedly, relishing the impact that little revelation would have.

Dean's eyes opened wider. He looked at Sam like he was some sort of assassin, and struggled to sit up. "DVM? She's a freaking veterinarian!"

"Easy, Dean…" Sam pushed him back down, his firm but gentle hands holding him still.

"Kinda picky aren't you, considering-?" she said, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. "Don't worry, I'm not going to neuter you." She turned to Sam. "Get that tee-shirt off him."

Sam pulled it over his head as Dean grimaced. She stripped away the sodden bandage and stopped. When she saw his wounds, she immediately regretted her offhand manner. This was serious; his life could well be in danger.

"Aw, honey...this is just insanity! You really need a hospital-!" she said, dismayed.

Dean shivered in the cool air. "Please—" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just...just stop the bleeding. At least we can keep going then-"

She was horrified. "Just stop the bleeding-? What do you want me to do; stuff a cork in it? It's not that simple; you have to get that slug out along with whatever it dragged in or infection will kill you before you're even out of state!" she argued.

Dean tried to reply, but he closed his eyes and moaned as a fresh wave of pain radiated through him.

"Doc, please—" Sam asked softly. "You were ready to work on the horse you thought I had, when I told you it was shot. Is this really so different?"

She shook her head, thoroughly appalled. "Do you know what would happen if your horse died, Sam? We'd dig a deep hole behind the barn and shove it in. Are you prepared to do that with your brother here?"

Sam had no answer. His eyes brimmed, and he looked down. But Dean spoke up. "C'mon, doc; just think of this as your once-in-a-lifetime chance to…work on a person, instead of fixing another housecat." he panted. "No harm, no foul...if I croak, Sam will just cart my dead ass away and…you'll never have to think about it again."

"You really are nuts!" But despite his forced glibness, she could see that he was in terrible pain as blood trickled steadily from both the wounds. She relented; time was running out. "Fine. I'll do what I can. But you remember; this was your choice, not mine!" She saw his taut features relax a little with relief. -_Be careful what you wish for-_ she thought grimly, —_you just might get it-_

She slipped on a headband with a bright light attached. Thank god she was prepared for field surgery; there was no power available in the barn. She double-checked that everything she needed was laid out. She pulled Sam aside. "Ok; you, Sam; you're going to have to hold him down, keep him as immobile as possible; and it's not going to be easy once I start poking around in there. Lay across his chest and hold his arms down."

"Well wait, I mean can't you knock him out...or something?"

"Sam, I can safely tranquilize a horse based on an estimated weight, but an animal like that is a minimum three times an average man's weight. I have no idea what dosage to inject into a person, or even if it would be safe in any amount. It'd be more dangerous than his getting shot, understand?"

He was shocked, he hadn't even considered that. He cast a worried glance but nodded.

When she was ready, Sam crouched beside Dean, leaned across his chest and pinned him with his own weight, holding him as instructed. There was no point in warning him.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"It'll be ok, Dean. It won't take long-"

It dawned on Dean that he was going to have a front row seat at this little show. "Aw, no! Sam, jesus; come on! At least give me some whiskey or something!" he whispered fearfully.

Sam released him, nodding and returning to the car.

Dean turned his eyes to Beth. "Seriously doc...would it help if I said sorry?" he pleaded.

She looked at him, and her expression softened with sympathy. "I'm not punishing you, honey. I don't want to hurt you, but I just can't safely sedate you. I'll try to be quick, but you still have the hospital as the better choice."

He knew he didn't. He groaned a curse and shut his eyes.

* * *

><p>Sam returned with a bottle, lifted his head and let him drink what he wanted. Whether it would help remained to be seen; but to Dean's thinking it sure as hell couldn't hurt. He felt the warmth of the bourbon radiate in the pit of his stomach and it was comforting.<p>

Beth urged them, "Come on, boys; we need to do this."

Sam glanced at Dean, who winced and nodded. Once again Dean found himself immobilized by his brother's hands and weight.

"I'm going to poke around a bit to see what's going on, and then I'll try to remove the slug. After that, we'll deal with the other wound. Sam; remember what I said-"

He pressed a little harder, making sure Dean couldn't squirm away.

She addressed the patient again. "I'm giving you a few shots of a local; you'll feel a couple of pricks." Unfortunately, that was more for his psyche than anything else; she knew it would have minimal effect once she started in. When she felt it had taken effect, she mopped away the blood obscuring her view and pushed a probe and tiny mirror into the wound. The second Dean felt the cold steel enter he lurched violently, tensing and choking back a yell. His abrupt and strong resistance caught Sam off guard and he pinned him now as hard as he could.

"Sam; sit on him if you have to. I can't work if he's jumping around!"

"I've got him now." he said grimly, watching with anguish as tears welled up in Dean's eyes and slid away. "Hang on, Dean; it'll be over soon." he whispered lamely.

She had to sit on his hips to keep him still. Once again she probed, this time Dean couldn't go anywhere as he felt a searing pain and cried out again. She had to make sure there was nothing damaged by the bullet's path; if he'd even nicked any vitals, she'd stop immediately and force them to go to emergency. But he was lucky, if you could call it that. It seemed clear in that regard. She soaked up the blood again and gave him a minute to recover.

He panted, eyes shut tightly. His skin was covered now in a sheen of sweat. She saw that Sam was holding his hand, and saying nothing as he bore the crushing grip Dean exerted.

She hated causing pain. But she'd warned them, and she was committed now. "Ok Sam-" she warned softly. He nodded and tightened his grip.

The forceps were more invasive. She pushed them along the path of the slug. It tested Sam's strength to the limit to keep his brother still; his fingers were turning blue in Dean's grip.

Dean gasped small ragged breaths as he felt the surgical tool push deeper. "Wait, stop...stop, please-" he sobbed.

But she didn't stop. She forced it further; there was no point in delaying, he wasn't going to feel it any less. She felt the hard lead of the slug scrape against the tip, and widened the forceps to grip it. He let loose a strangled scream as she grasped the projectile and drew it out. She examined it in the light, making sure it wasn't fragmented. Dean buried his face against the warm flannel of Sam's shoulder and wept, cursing weakly.

* * *

><p>Dr. Macy retrieved Dean's tee shirt, smoothing it out and peering at it carefully. At the center of the blood were two holes. She pressed the fabric edges down precisely, noting with a frown that there was a tiny section of cloth missing from the lower one. "Sorry, Dean; bit more to go."<p>

Bullets go in sterile; bits of fabric don't. If left behind it was a sure source of infection. She returned to exploring the wound until the foreign bit of black fiber was visible. She glanced at her unfortunate patient. The veins in his neck stood out like rope, she could feel him try to twist away as she worked. He crushed Sam's fingers involuntarily, but this time his scream cut short. His taut resistance relaxed, and she saw with relief that he'd passed out. She wished he'd done that ten minutes ago.

Sam extricated his hand from Dean's, sitting up and shaking feeling back into his fingers.

"He still with us?" she asked.

He checked Dean's pulse again and nodded. He watched her now as she completed cleaning and suturing both wounds. He kept a hand on Dean's chest just in case he bolted again, relieved at feeling the strong beat of his heart through his palm. A few moments later she applied adhesive bandages and sat back, watching Dean's now peaceful face. –_Handsome, for a bad boy_- she thought. _-what a waste_.- She reached out, brushing his forehead. "Sorry, kiddo. That wasn't very pleasant, was it?" she said softly. She turned to Sam. "How's the hand..?"

He smiled ruefully. "It's ok. The feeling's coming back." He rubbed his other hand over his face wearily. "God, that was rough. ..Do you think… he'll be alright?"

She sighed and stretched, trying to lessen her own tension. "All I can tell you Sam, is that as far as I could see, his vitals were ok, and I'm pretty sure I removed everything that shouldn't be in there. So hopefully he'll avoid serious infection. He lost some blood, that's for sure. But he's young and strong. Obviously it's not his first time getting hurt either, judging from those scars. But so far he's still with us…right?"

"Yeah...so far." He wiped away the tears clinging to his lashes.

She leaned over and squeezed his arm. "You did well there, Sam. Still should have gone to the hospital, but good job."

He nodded in weary misery.

"Now where's that bottle I saw?" she said.

He found it and handed it to her, waiting while she took a long draught. She gave it back and he did the same.

"Dr. Macy...I can't thank you enough. We were so, so desperate, I didn't know what I was going to do if you..."

"It's Beth…and you didn't exactly give me much choice. Now I think you owe me an explanation, at least."

He offered a modified version of the events in St. Louis that led up to their becoming targets, wisely leaving out the shape-shifter detail.

She was silent for a while. "So this other guy came and killed the girl before your brother arrived for their date… I guess it would've looked pretty damning when they saw him with her blood on his hands, his finger prints everywhere, and this bastard having a similar look, according to witnesses." she mused. "Sam, you're not bullshitting me here are you? He really is innocent?"

Sam snorted. "Dean's hardly innocent. He's a pushy, erratic, carpe-diem pain-in-the-ass. Half the time I want to just drive over him with that damn car of his. But the other half of the time he's my absolute hero. He'd throw himself in front of a train to save the puppy on the tracks. He didn't hurt that girl. And he'll never, ever be able to prove it." He took another draught. and handed it to her. "We've been lucky so far, managing to stay a few steps ahead of the law. I don't have a clue how they identified him at the gas station. Trigger-happy jerks; he hardly had a chance to raise his hands before they shot him."

She glanced for a moment at the figure asleep on the straw, then turned back to Sam. "What about you? Why can't you get out of this?"

"My involvement with him is...complicated, at the moment. We were actually searching for our Dad, originally. He'd gone missing and Dean showed up at Stanford, asking me to help him look. I was in pre-law out there. I hadn't seen either of them for a few years..." He sighed. "And there's the aiding and abetting a fugitive, for starters; that alone would give me a few years in a cell. But he needs me right now. If he was alone when he was hurt today, I think he'd have just driven until he couldn't anymore, found a nice place to park, put on some Zeppelin and just let himself bleed to death, instead of going to prison. He's helped put a few guys in there; he knows it would be hell for him if he did get put away. God I wanted to drive him to Emergency this afternoon, but he was dead-set against it. I owed him that much to at least try to keep him out of jail."

"But you can't keep running, Sam."

He sighed again. "I know. I don't know how or where this goes, ultimately. But I guess I'll go with him anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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><p>Beth glanced at her watch. "Sam, I have to call my son. He'll need an update on how long I'll be."<p>

"Yeah, sure, of course. You don't need my permission, you're more in charge right now than I am." He checked on Dean as she spoke to her son. If she chose to call the cops now there was nothing he could do.

"Andy, my son, is manning the phone until I get back. So far it's been a slow evening; one dog hit by a car and one gun-shot fugitive…typical Tuesday night." She pulled the sides of the sleeping bag tighter over Dean's unconscious form, the air was chilling rapidly with sunset. "What now, Sam? That car of his is a target, and your descriptions were pretty accurate from what I heard on the radio. You can't just drive away now."

He shrugged, at a loss."We didn't really have a chance to plan that far ahead."

She watched him for a minute, then frowned. "Goddammit! Why couldn't you be some lousy scuzbag that I could just leave behind in good conscience? Well congrats; you convinced me that you're worth helping. Thanks a lot!"

"Beth, you can't involve yourself; it's too much of a risk."

"That's very noble, Sam; now shut-up. It's only a matter of hours before they find you here. It's getting cold out and you can't drive that car anywhere; do you have any flashes of brilliance I'm missing?"

"Um…no."

"Then we'll do it my way. Get what you need from your car; I'm going to bring the van down. Wrap your brother up in the sleeping bag and when I'm ready, lay him in the back . Then you lay with him; I'm going to throw a tarp over you. They're more than likely going to do vehicle checks after the press you got. If that happens, just shut up, keep him quiet, and let me handle it, ok?"

Sam didn't have a lot of choice, and this offer was the best he could hope for. Beth Macy was a smart, strong, no-nonsense individual and Sam felt relief in putting their fate in her hands for the moment. "Beth, are you sure? What if-"

She gave him a withering look. "Sam, do as you're told."

"Yes Ma'am."

She headed back up to the road. Sam quickly loaded a gym bag with any weapons that fit in; they could never afford to replace them. He gathered the rest; the shotguns and other hunting paraphernalia, and dug a deep hole in the moldering straw, covering them back over, in such away that it looked undisturbed. And he grabbed anything sentimental from the car since there was every chance Dean would never see it again. He heard her van pull up. When the door was open, he wrapped Dean tightly, and carried him over as she shifted the contents around to make room for them. He laid him on the hard rubber floor gently, hopped up beside and flattened as she tucked the tarp over them. She shut the doors, pulled the barn closed, and got back in.

"You ok, there?"

"Yeah."

"Ok now, silence from now on, got it?"

* * *

><p>Her plan was to take her illicit cargo to an isolated motel; she knew of a likely candidate. It was at least a twenty five minute drive and she crossed her fingers that they'd avoid any road blocks.<p>

She drove along, tense and silent. Dean had shifted and moaned several times as they travelled over the rough back roads. "Sam, is he ok there?"

Under the tarp, his muffled voice assured her it seemed so. She reminded Sam that it was imperative that he do whatever necessary to keep Dean quiet should they be stopped.

And they were, just as she'd predicted. They had a cordon set up, and were politely checking every vehicle before letting them pass. Beth warned Sam.

"They're coming up to the van, Sam!" she hissed.

A burly police officer approached the van. "Evening, Ma'am. We need to check the vehicle; there are a couple of fugitives in the area."

"Sure, Officer, absolutely. Just be careful not to touch that dead calf back there, those maggots are probably crawling with disease I have to do a pathology; its been dead for few days and it's getting a little ripe."

The policeman pulled his head back from her window, with a grimace of distaste. He shone a flashlight over the tarp, nodded to her and waved her on.

When Beth finally allowed herself to breath, she couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Cripes!" she snorted. "What a pansy!"

Sam popped his head out from under the tarp. "Nice work! Although I'm offended that he believed we were a stinking carcass."

She turned around, still laughing. "Yeah, I've learned that most people; especially the big, tough guys, are pretty squeamish about the thought of maggots."

She grew serious when she heard Dean moan a protest as the van wheels found rougher road. "I've got a motel in mind, Sam. Is that ok?"

"Perfect."

"Good. it'll be another fifteen minutes or so; keep that tarp on just in case."

Sam pulled it over again, leaving just their heads out. He slid his arm under Dean's neck, raising his head off the hard rubber. He could feel the damp of his sweat through his sleeve and he was anxious to get him laid out on a warm and reasonably comfortable bed.

When his cell rang, both he and Beth jumped. It was Bobby, deeply concerned, having seen the news. Sam filled him in as to what had happened and what their plans were, promising to call later when they were settled.

Beth turned to Sam. "Holy! We're lucky he didn't call ten minutes ago!" she said.

"Yeah, sorry. I never even thought about my phone, or Dean's. I'll turn both off for now."

It was a sobering thought, just how close they'd come to ruin.

* * *

><p>They drove to the motel without further incident. Just before their destination, she pulled over and removed the vehicle magnetics with her name and phone number from the side of the van, just to be safe. She parked in front of the unit furthest from the office, thinking wisely that she could shield the brothers from view with the van when Sam carried Dean in. She waited while he arranged and paid for their stay, listening for any sounds of difficulty from her patient, but he remained silent.<p>

Sam returned, unlocked the room, and while Beth pulled back the covers on one of the beds and held the door open, he scooped up his heavy, limp burden and brought him in.

"Sorry about the place." Beth said, glancing around the shabby interior. "Not exactly five star."

"Don't apologize, it's better than most of the dives we find." Sam said. "And a lot better than cold, moldy straw."

She had to agree with the latter.

When he was satisfied that Dean was well covered and comfortable, Sam again tried to express his gratitude. "Look...Dr. Macy...Beth; thanks again, for everything. I'm sure we-" He stopped, at a loss for words. She didn't wait for him to find them.

"Sam, in all honesty, I can't deny it was a rush. And I'm glad I could help. But I have to stress again; rethink the hospital, please… I can't stick around any longer, I have four footed emergencies waiting. And I am a vet; I did what I could for your brother but there's after care that he needs and I just can't provide it."

Sam looked at Dean, still silently sleeping. "I understand. And you did more than I could have hoped for. You need to distance yourself from us anyway, Beth. You don't want this shit to touch your life, believe me. And to be honest; this stage of things is something we can handle, we've been here before."

She looked at him for a moment. She guessed at his age; under twenty five for sure. But he looked world-weary with the strain of this thing, maybe the strain of his whole life right now. She found herself feeling –_what—maternal-? _Something, at any rate, that she didn't need at this point. And then the other one…well, maternal was far from what she thought of regarding him, she was embarrassed to realize. And after seeing him suffer such pain, she felt strange just abandoning them to their fate and moving on. But she knew Sam was right. She had a good life, she'd worked damned hard to make it so, and staying connected to these two was a risk that she should run screaming from.

She wrote her cell number on a scrap and gave it to him. "Sam, just…give me an update sometime, on how you made out, ok? I can't do anything more for you, in terms of first-aid. If your brother goes downhill; fever, vomiting, anything; you have to get proper medical help, and damn quick, understand?"

"Yeah, I do. And I'll let you know how things turn out, unless you hear it on the news first. Thanks, Beth …for everything."

"Kiss'er for me." a voice whispered hoarsely from the bed.

They both turned toward the source, pleased and worried that he was awake. She leaned over Dean's bed. "Tell you what; kiss me yourself when you can safely come back to visit." Beth said.

He raised a brow, and gave her a crooked little smile.

She made her way out to the van, and smiled sadly to Sam. "Good luck, Sam. I wish you both well."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sam returned to the silent vigil over his brother, as he had done so many times before. He checked on him one last time, then crawled into his own bed, watching the news with boredom. He was growing sleepy when his attention was grabbed at the mention of their names. He listened intently to the report, unnerved at seeing their mug-shots flashed across the screen. What was it about mug-shots, or driver's license photos, for that matter; that made even the most normal people look like grim sociopaths? He turned the TV off after the report. Had to call Bobby anyway.

Bobby answered immediately. "_So?" _

"Well, you know what happened from the news reports. I don't know why we were ID'd. We were just about ready to go; Dean was just dumping the garbage when they called him out. He dove into the car and we took off, but they were so fast. He was hit twice before he was even in his seat."

"_How bad?" _

"One deep graze over his ribs and one hit him lower in his left side. We got the bullet out and everything's stitched up. He's out now...I'm just watching for fever."

"_Shit! So you got medical help?"_

"Sort of. He was adamant we not go to a hospital. I had to call a vet, for shit's sake; nobody else would come out."

Bobby was silent for a moment. "Yeah, after the news report, and with everybody on alert, you'd have been picked up for sure the second you got in the doors. Don't feel bad, Sam; he wouldn't be the first hunter to be patched up by a veterinarian, and a lot of those guys are better than some of the hockey-glove wearing docs out there. You sure the guy knew what he was doing?"

"_She_; it was a woman, and yeah, she was top rate; nerves of steel. She saved his ass for sure. She even drove us to this place afterward, she said the Impala was too well known."

"_Well she's right about that. What about you? You sound shaky."_

"I am. I still haven't recovered from the whole shooting thing, let alone everything else. God, Bobby, how did they know? It was going so great lately, we had five good hunts without any problems, and two were paid jobs even. And now this."

"_Mmm. I don't know what's going on with that. Somebody had to have tipped them off somehow, or it was just the lousy luck that somebody recognized you from a picture. What about that car, then? Is it safe somewhere?" _

"No. Well, not for long. It's still hidden in the barn where the Doc fixed Dean up. I took most of our hardware, and hid the bigger stuff in the straw. I'm without wheels, here."

"_I'll come out with something for you to drive for now but I'd better get my ass out quick or they'll find that car before I can load it. Gimme directions." _

"Wish you didn't have to, Bobby, but thanks. We're sitting ducks right now."

Sam relayed the info, and Bobby promised to get out there within three hours. "_Keep me posted, Sam." _

"I will. See you, Bobby, and thanks again."

He put the phone down, frowning. He really didn't like having to drag Bobby out again. It was a risk for him to associate with them as much as it was for anyone else. But he was a good friend; Sam couldn't have dissuaded him anyway. His attention was diverted by a sound from Dean. "Hey, are you ok?" he asked, testing his temp with a hand to his forehead.

Dean opened his eyes and tried hard to focus on Sam's face. He was somewhat flushed and sweating. "Thirsty." he whispered.

Sam had anticipated that; he had a glass of water ready. He held it for him until it was empty. "Better?"

"Yeah." He laid his head back down. "Any aspirin or anything?"

Unfortunately the first aid kit was still back in the car. And the bourbon was somewhere in the straw. Sam had to break it to him that there was no relief at the moment. But it was hardly an issue as he'd drifted off again almost immediately. His forehead was hotter than normal but it was to be expected. As long as his temp didn't shoot up to dangerous level, he seemed to be heading toward healing. The knot in Sam's gut loosened a little. Dean always healed fast, thank god. He returned to his own bed, and spent the next while trying to understand how the policewoman could have known they would be there. He knew for a fact that they hadn't been tailed; Dean would have picked up on it. Was it just bad luck? That was never far away in their experiences; good luck was a rarity for them. But even so, she could hardly have identified him so fast from that distance so it wasn't a sudden recognition on her part. And even if it had been, was she so familiar with his exact appearance that she could have known him instantly? No, she knew who he was; it was almost as if she had some premonition that they'd be there at that moment. And as far as he remembered, the guy at the gas bar was completely unconcerned about them, there was no hint that he was nervous or fearful. None of it made sense. it was frustrating, and it unnerved him deeply. He tried to put it out of his mind and relax. He had a few hours until Bobby's arrival; he needed to use them to uncoil his tightly twisted nerves.

* * *

><p>- Three Years Ago-<p>

Laura Brennen was a tender nineteen when her sister was murdered. She and Karin were inseparable, as twins often are. They grew up in a rural hamlet, and there weren't many kids around so they relied on each other for company. They were a contented trio, the twins and their father. Their mother had died at their entrance to the world.

Will Brennen was an uncomplicated man, a mix of Irish and Welsh. He had an acerbic and dead-pan wit; a characteristic that both girls inherited. People often had no idea what to make of him, when they first met him. But soon they recognized the slight curl to a corner of his mouth, the raised brow, the playful twinkle in his eyes. And he was grumbling putty in the girls' hands.

Karin was preparing to go to college that fall, she wanted to become a teacher. Laura was going as well, enrolled in an fine arts program. The future was set, and they waited in happy anticipation for the day school would begin in September.

But that day would never come. A different day would rise in ugly august sunday when _he_ came into their lives. He was a vicious young drifter. When he came across the pleasant little house, he watched from a hidden vantage point until he knew exactly who lived there, and how easy it would be to get what he decided he wanted. They never would know his name.

Will was first. He answered the door just past noon, and likely never knew what hit him. Karin was behind him, in the kitchen, preparing lunch. She dropped her tray of sandwiches and screamed in terror when she heard the first shotgun blast. The dog was snarling and barking in fury. Laura was upstairs. She heard it all; the shots, the barking, the screams. Torn between her fear and her family, she panicked and crawled under her bed.

She would never forget those sounds. When she finally dared to leave the safety of her hiding place it was dark. The house was silent, the door left open.

She called for her father and sister, but there was no answer. The dog didn't come at her voice. When she dared to turn on the kitchen light, the scene that greeted her was one of pure horror. Her father was sprawled on his back, eyes wide, and very clearly dead. The dog was a few feet away, it too lay lifeless. Blood was spattered over everything. Gagging, she fled the scene, and ran from room to room in search of Karin, screaming her name until she was hoarse.

Karin wasn't lying dead like their father. But she was gone.

Laura prayed and prayed in those following days. Staying with friends, awaiting news of Karin, she prayed so hard that she didn't even notice when her fingernails pierced the palms of her tightly clenched fists. She squeezed her eyes shut so hard in her fervor that she saw stars. But still no word came. No divine help brought her sister back to her.

When the police tape came down, Laura returned home. It had been several weeks, and the dust lay thick on everything. The house still smelled like stale disinfectant from the clean-up. She was struck by an absurd and abstract thought; the kitchen floor had never looked so good. She wandered around the rooms, numb, deafened by the silence.

She was alone. Dad was gone. And Karin…

They had found Karin's body exactly one week after she was taken. Forensics determined that she'd survived six days at his hands. _Six days_. Laura couldn't think of anything except that they'd missed her by a day, and that the police had said...well they spared her the specifics, but Karin had suffered terribly in that time. Laura leafed through the pile of mail, listlessly. Cards of condolences she'd never open. The usual flyers and bills. And a letter from her college, welcoming her to her first semester.

But Laura's creative spirit was now as dead as her loved ones. She tore the letter up, letting the pieces drop to the gleaming kitchen floor, and retreated to her bed. Art and beauty were no longer alive within her, but the void that remained was quickly filled by a powerful new force; one that lit a dangerous and unstable fire within. _Revenge_.

As she lay on her bed, sleepless, bitter, and hollow inside, Laura Brennen made a decision that would give her a feeling of control over her ugly new world. No one would ever get away with hurting someone like Karin was again, not while she could do something about it. She vowed she would search until her dying breath for the man responsible for shattering her life and family, and kill him with her own two hands. And along the way, she'd punish anyone else who thought they would entertain themselves in a similar way. She decided she would apply to the police academy. Tomorrow.

* * *

><p>-Six Months Ago—<p>

In her fledgling career, Officer Laura Brennen had already had the pleasure of arresting three separate men accused of harming women. They were not easy arrests; all three had come in requiring serious medical attention. Resisting arrest, threatening behaviour, attempts to flee; all legitimate reasons for using force. She was never questioned regarding the state of her captives; rather, she received citations of merit each time. She was quickly earning a reputation as a smart, tough, and uncompromising police officer.

When the details came down the wire about the murdered girl in St Louis, she tucked the printout into her pocket. This one was hers. She was starving with need to punish someone again for that day, and this particular case, the tortured girl, the description of the man...well it all fit. She made it a personal crusade to track the bastard and make him pay. In her twisted and angry imagination, she had found Dad and Karin's killer.

She burned the details into her mind, keeping close watch for any one or any thing that sounded like it could be significant to the case. With those other three, she barely had a chance to satisfy her need for retaliation; there were too many people around—and she had her career to think of. But it fed her hate just enough to make her hungry for more. She spent many months searching; a starving fox with the scent of the rabbit maddeningly close, but her prey elusive. The accused in this case, this Dean Winchester bastard; seemed determined to stay out of reach. She searched and hounded, but consistently came up empty. She used every police resource available to her, spent her evenings at home poring over notes, newspapers, the internet. But she was despairing. It wasn't working, he was just out of reach; taunting her, eluding her, and the need in her was growing to dangerous levels.

When she couldn't take it anymore, Laura Brennen, for the second time in her life, turned to prayer. She prayed hard and passionately, begging for help, offering everything she had for that. But this time she didn't direct her prayers towards the heavens.

And this time...they were answered.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

Sleep eluded him. Sam got up and again looked his brother over. Dean still seemed restful, and there was still no spike in his slight fever. He dug out a pair of flannel pants and a fresh shirt, and he wrestled off the sticky, bloody jeans and damp shirt in exchange for the clean, dry things. Dean didn't wake, but he seemed a bit more comfortable. Sam ran some hot water in the sink, sprinkled on some beef tenderizer powder and got the jeans soaking. He was, by now, an expert at getting bloodstains out. He sat in silence, waiting for Bobby to come.

_Bobby._ Thank god for him. Sam's world was so hard, and so far removed from what he had planned and envisioned for himself. He would have found it nearly impossible to navigate these times, when the roles were reversed and it was he who was responsible for Dean's welfare, without the help and support of their old family ally. He'd learned early on not to rely on Dad. But Dean was always there; defending, providing...supporting. Sam had ultimately escaped to school just to shrug off what felt to him like a suffocating mantle of control, but he was realizing daily now that it wasn't about control, it was about protection. And it was these times, when it was Dean who needed his protection rather than the other way around, that he felt his most vulnerable, and his most useless. But Bobby always found a way to fill the gaps.

He wished he had asked Bobby to pick up some things he could heat up for Dean. The current incarnation of 'home-sweet-home' had no cooking facilities, but it did have a kettle. He could make cuppa-soup, or broth, or tea, at least.

_God_ he hated all of this. Their lives at this time were so hardscrabble and violent, sordid, even. It was everything from his youth that he'd fled. And nobody ever appreciated their efforts. They were ridding the world, one-by-one, of the filth that threatened it, and all they ever got in return was hardship and pain. Especially Dean. He walked into his own tragedies with his eyes wide open, but lately, fate seemed to throw even more at him, as if testing to see just what he could bear. It wasn't fair. Sometimes he wished he had more of Dean's single-minded conviction that what they were doing was always right. It sure as hell would help.

* * *

><p>An eternity later, Sam heard a rumble in front of the motel room. He peeked through the drawn curtains and was relieved to see that it was Bobby. He opened the door just as the older man was poised to knock.<p>

"Hey, Sam." Bobby greeted.

Sam's eyes radiated his relief. "Thanks for coming, Bobby."

Bobby patted his shoulder and entered, dropping a bulging paper grocery bag on the counter. It was loaded with kettle-friendly food items. Sam glanced at it, and was nearly overwhelmed with the intensity of his appreciation. Bobby, as always, understood.

"He asleep?" Bobby asked quietly, gesturing toward the occupied bed.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Just a little hot, nothing scary so far. And he's been with-it, when he's awake."

"Good." Bobby pulled a chair over and leaned over Dean's bed. He touched his forehead, whispered something, and pulled back the covers to check the damage. When he was satisfied that the wounds seemed pink and healthy enough, he tucked the blankets back and turned his attention to Sam. "Ok. For starters; did you have any supper?"

Sam shook his head.

Bobby proceeded to unwrap some subs that he'd picked up. Sam accepted one gratefully; he was starving. He and Bobby sat, eating in silence, and sharing a six pack. The food and alcohol did a world of good for Sam's frayed nerves. When they were filled, the discussion turned to damage control.

"I have a Ranger on the truck for you. Not too bad; it's sound, not overly rusty so it won't draw any attention. It won't out-run anything, though; so you can't drive as if you were in the Impala."

Sam nodded. "Anything, thanks. I really appreciate it."

"I'll get out to the car in a bit; cross yer fingers that it's there still. If it's safe we can load her up, and get the stuff you stashed in the straw. The sooner the better."

Sam agreed. He wanted the Impala to be safe for Dean's sake. If it was discovered by the law and impounded, they might as well consider it written off, and he knew the effect that would have on his brother.

"Sam, what are you gonna do now? Where are you headed?" Bobby asked.

"Guess we'll stick around here for a few days 'til Dean can travel; then just hit the road until we have some decent mileage between us and this place. I still can't figure out why this happened, Bobby; none of it's logical. But we don't have the luxury of hanging around trying to figure it out…we just need to get the hell away."

"Amen. Just keep moving for a day or two until the heat's behind you. Then you can hole up somewhere and get strong again. But wait for a day or two before he moves, ok? You and I both know how he is, and we'll just have to save him from himself while he's to weak to bitch. When he can get up by himself you should hit the road."

Sam nodded his agreement. "Yeah, that's about what I had in mind."

* * *

><p>When they were done they got ready to retrieve the car. Sam felt very uncomfortable with leaving Dean behind, but there was no way around it. Bobby dropped the loaner truck from the tow-bed while he checked on Dean. He was hoping to find him awake, but Dean was still out of it. He shook him gently.<p>

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean grimaced and turned his head away from the annoyance, but Sam persisted. When he was sure Dean was cognizant he got him more water and told him their plans.

"My car? Bobby's taking it?"

"Yeah, Dean, for safe-keeping. It's too well known right now; all the cops will be looking for it. Bobby brought a truck for us to use for a while; I'm going with him to load the Impala, ok? We'll be back in an hour, are you ok for that time?"

Dean nodded and closed his eyes. "Yeah. But watch-out, Sammy; just be careful."

Sam smiled a little. "I promise."

The two men left the motel room, Sam making sure the door was locked.

* * *

><p>Officer Laura Brennen watched them leave. She was pleased, she didn't want the complication of the brother. If she had to take him too it could end up a circus, and she'd be forced to bring her quarry in officially, which was the last thing she wanted. She had no real quarrel with the younger one; for all she knew he may not even know what the other had done. She'd waited patiently for hours, after Daddy had said that this was where they would be hiding. Now, finally, she was rewarded by his departure, and her quarry was alone. Now, at last, she knew she had him.<p>

And Daddy was never wrong.

Ever since she prayed, and her Dad had been miraculously returned to her; she listened to his wise and knowing words. Sometimes it was just words spoken softly in her head, soothing, instructing. And sometimes he was right there beside her, just as she remembered. His tufts of grey hair, charming and unruly. His twinkling eyes. His warm smile. Oh, how she'd missed him... She didn't know how it was possible, but she didn't care. She knew that it was real. And together they were going to make Karin's killer pay. Officer Brennen drove out from behind her screen of trees into the parking lot. She took a deep breath to centre herself, then got out, drawing her gun, and holding a pry bar in her other hand. She glanced around to assure herself that there was no one watching, and then tested the knob. It was locked, as she expected it would be. She slid the flat edge of the pry bar between the door and the jamb, and forced it up. The wooden edge splintered and door popped open easily, the lock old, and cheap.

Dean was almost asleep again. When she saw him, she very nearly succumbed to her hatred. She pointed her gun at his head, her finger easing down on the trigger, and only Daddy's soothing whisper kept her from killing him in his bed. He reminded her that she had more satisfying plans laid.

Her voice woke him. He groaned at the disturbance again and turned toward it's source, expecting Sam. But his bleary eyes registered a uniform and a gun instead.. It took a few seconds for that to sink in, he was hardly in top form. But when it did, he sat up in startled shock, and swore at the painful motion, and then again at the unwelcome reality standing in front of him.

"Dean Winchester." She didn't say it as a question, but rather as a satisfied statement. She stepped forward and stood over him, her shining gun unwavering in her hand.

He stared at her for a moment, frozen in position, fighting the creeping blackness at the periphery of his vision. Then he dropped back against his pillow, throwing an arm across his eyes with a groan of defeat. He was alone and defenseless, and somehow, impossibly, miserably; it was _her_. The trigger-happy cop from the gas station.

"Get up!" she snarled.

"I can't." he growled back, "Thanks to you-"

She kicked his bed for emphasis and hissed; "I'm not asking!"

Dean glared at her, but he pushed himself upright again, slowly sitting up and gingerly dropping his feet over the bedside. He sat still, breathing heavily, and holding his side. Pain made him angry and reckless. "Great, it's Officer Annie Oakley. Why'd you pull the trigger so damned fast back there? Did you miss that lecture at the academy? You know, I might have wanted to surrender if you gave me half a chance, you bitch!" he spat. He was hurting, and saw no need to temper his anger; she had him anyway.

"Shut up!" she barked. "Stand up, over there by the wall."

He knew he probably could, if he had to, but she didn't have to know it. He made his motions deliberately slow, stalling in the hope that Sam would return.

She saw through it. "Do you think I'm stupid? _Move!_ And keep your filthy hands up!" She gestured at him impatiently with the pistol.

He swore bitterly and stood up, too abruptly for either of their comfort. He wobbled, but she stepped back slightly and tensed; her aim wavering momentarily. It wasn't lost on him, and desperate and doomed, he made a wild attempt to grab her weapon. But he was too slow, too weak; his timing hopelessly off. She dodged him easily and brought the butt of the gun down hard against his temple, and he dropped like a stone.

She shouted at him again, and kicked his unresisting body sharply. He didn't react, and she was satisfied that he wasn't faking. It simplified the rest. He was a dead weight, hard to move, but at least he wasn't a threat any more. She handcuffed his wrists together behind his back and dragged his limp weight out the door, and hauled him with difficulty into the back of the squad car. Back in the driver's seat, she turned around, and watched him with palpable hatred. He was still; ashen, and helpless. She realized that she was nearly hyperventilating, and she worked to calm down. This was it, the moment she'd craved for so long, ever since that awful day.. She had him now, in her grasp. He'd held Karin for six torturous days. She would return that favour. She closed her eyes for a moment, relishing her triumph.

Daddy whispered his approval, and she smiled broadly.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five.

Once on the road, Bobby took the opportunity to get a bead on the situation. He knew Sam's answers were always a reliable and accurate barometer of the state of things for the brothers. Sam didn't have the innate caution that his brother had, and as a result, his replies were always complete, and accurate. Dean was inclined to muddy the waters, just to be safe, and he was skilled at subterfuge.

"How are you boys _really_ doing?" the older man questioned. "I mean, before this happened. Were you living ok?"

Sam pursed his lips and sighed. "Well, in terms of hunting, it was good. Like I said; we had five real successes… I mean, they're pretty much always successes in that we walk away the winner, but these last ones put some cash in the kitty and we didn't have to leave behind any blood this time. In those terms it was all good."

He stared out into the darkness, unhappily. "But we are completely aware that we're running. This thing in St. Louis; I mean, Dean's blamed now for the murder that Zack was originally accused of…and they have a shapeshifter body, but they've got to know there's more to it. If they did any autopsy on that thing they'd have seen that it was a freak, but it's still Dean in the official cross-hairs. He can hardly argue that when he's been shot dead by the next cop aiming to boost their career. I just don't know how to squirm out of this, Bobby."

"I hear you, Sam. Running from anything is a crappy way to live, believe me, I know. Any word from your Dad?"

"No."

Sam said that with a bitter tone that made Bobby wince. -_Stupid bugger_—he thought of his old friend. -_Support your kids a little; they're hurting because of you_-

"Sam, tell me exactly how it went down at the gas station."

Sam drew a deep breath, not really wanting to relive that. Then he gave a play by play description.

Bobby grunted at the conclusion. "Yeah, I can see why that would be weird. I mean, that cop had no real reason to know you'd be there at that exact time, yet there she was." he mused, puzzled. "No chance that the pump jockey recognized you two?"

Sam shook his head. "Bobby, there just wasn't time. The guy was oblivious, just doing his job. Even if he could have made the connection, there just wasn't time for him to have called the cops, and had them respond, drive out, and verify it was Dean and then react. It was as if she knew beforehand that we were going to be there. I know, I swear, we were not tailed. I'm no expert, but you know Dean; he'd have seen that right off, he's so paranoid. And she was alone; no partner or back-up. She called him out and pulled the trigger twice before he could have even really reacted. Granted, he did yell to me to floor it, and dive toward the car, but she'd already shot him before he was even in. Not exactly standard protocol, as far as I saw."

"Hmm." Bobby mulled that over. "Sounds odd, for sure. Too out-of-the-blue, can't picture it as coincidence. But it doesn't matter anyway, however she knew. It's a very public man-hunt now."

Sam slumped down a little. Bobby saw it, and regretted his un-tempered words. The kid needed some comforting too, not just frank talk.

"Listen, Sam...you just need to let this die down. When it does, and you get to some safer ground, miles away from this corner of the country, it won't seem like everybody's standing on your neck so much, ok? And Dean's a tough bastard, he'll heal up fine. It could have been a lot worse."

Sam didn't answer. He simply dropped his head into his hand and nodded. There was no indication other than the slight movement of his shoulders, but Bobby knew the young man was at the end of his rope and breaking. Bobby squeezed his shoulder, saying nothing.

After a few minutes, Sam discreetly rubbed his eyes and stared ahead. "There it is; just on the right, there-" Sam said, as the grey building loomed in the headlights.

* * *

><p>They approached the barn site warily. It was dark by now—the ground had crisped with frost as the temperature dropped. Both men breathed a sigh of relief that the area was undisturbed, and they were alone on the side road. The gate was still open from Beth Macy's departure.<p>

Sam hopped out and ran to the doors, peeking in, then pulling them open with a wave. Bobby eased the ramp truck down into position.

The dash and seat of the Impala were still sticky with blood. Sam sacrificed his shirt, wiping off the most visible smears in case, god-forbid, the truck was pulled over and the car scrutinized. It would be tricky enough without Bobby having to explain away bloodstains. The loading was done in a matter of minutes. Sam dug through the straw, retrieving the things he'd hidden. He remembered the bottle of bourbon and grabbed it too. The two of them tarped the car in thoroughly, leaving nothing visible. After a quick glance, he climbed back into the ramp truck and they headed back toward the safe haven of the motel.

"Thank god we were in time." Sam breathed. The last thing he wanted to have to do was break it to Dean that the Impala was lost to him.

"Amen." Bobby nodded.

Bobby was just as aware of the significance the Impala held for Dean. He and Dean had worked on her on countless occasions. As a matter of fact-he'd gone with John to check it over and buy it when Dean had successfully passed his drivers test at sixteen. He knew and understood the emotional attachment.

They drove the remaining miles in silence.

* * *

><p>The ache in his shoulders brought him around. He awoke to find himself seated on a wooden chair, his arms crossed tightly and bound to the back of it. His feet were bound as well. He was alone, in an empty and windowless cinder-block room. A single, inadequate fluorescent light buzzed overhead.<p>

His head ached sharply where she's hit him; the blood from that dried and caked down the side of his face. He shook his head a little, to regain some clarity. At least it distracted him from his other wounds. He didn't understand the situation, but he groaned miserably at the realization that the jig was up, and despite all their efforts, he was now firmly in the hands of the law. That knowledge brought a wave of despair, and he dropped his chin back down to his chest.

But he was never one to wallow. After a moment he raised his head again and took stock. This was no busy room full of cops processing their captives. It looked like a storage unit; there was a garage door, some scattered boxes, and it was cold and damp. He shivered. He couldn't recall anyone questioning him or fingerprinting him. There were no bars, no holding pen. No phone call allowance given. There was nothing about this place that suggested a police station at all. It seemed that his arresting officer had taken a sharp left away from departmental procedure.

* * *

><p>It was the more experienced hunter that saw it first. Bobby pulled up to their unit, and put a hand on Sam's arm to stop him. "Door's open, Sam-" he said grimly.<p>

Sam knew they'd left it locked. He'd made sure, as he was already nervous at leaving his injured brother alone. He glanced at Bobby fearfully.

Bobby pulled a pistol out from under his seat. He opened his door; Sam did the same, and they approached the motel door tensely. Sam gestured to Bobby, pointing at the pavement. There were dark spots, leading away from the threshold. _Blood_.

Bobby peered into the dark interior, then kicked the door open. There was nothing; no one, in the room. He nodded to Sam, who switched on the light. The blankets were half dragged off the bed. Several more dark spots showed on the carpet. And Dean was gone.

Sam was in a frothing panic. "Jesus Christ, he could barely even get up! Oh my god!" He paced uselessly, frantically, as Bobby searched the room for anything that could offer them direction. "Bobby, he was sleeping! And he already lost so much blood, it was only a few hours since he had that bullet dug out! Christ!" He sat down, wild-eyed. "I knew I shouldn't have left him alone! Aw, man..this is my fault; I shouldn't have left, I should have stayed with him-"

Bobby grabbed him by his shoulders and stared at him hard. "Sam! Get a grip! It's not your fault, but we need to figure out where he is, ok? Listen to me!"

Sam spent another moment with his mind in a hopeless spiral, but Bobby's words penetrated his angst. "Ok...ok, yeah," he acknowledged, visibly clamping down on his emotions and calming somewhat. "But what are we gonna do?"

Bobby released him. "I don't know, just give me a minute!" Bobby was just as upset but at least he had the steadiness and wisdom of experience shoring him up.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the motel manager. "You looking for your buddy?"

Sam nodded.

"Well, some bitch cop dragged him outa here like a sack of shit not forty-five minutes ago. He wasn't givin no help; she was pulling him like a sled of rocks. Listen, I don't want any trouble coming around here; people around here don't want that kind of attention, it's bad for business. I don't give a shit what's goin' on, just you get the hell out, you hear? I can call cops too!" He stood defiantly; thin, scabby arms crossed, his greasy comb-over waving in the cold wind.

Bobby answered, casting a warning look at Sam. "Sure, buddy; no problem. The guy had it coming anyway. We'll get outa your hair. You didn't happen to see any car number or anything, now did you?"

The manager shrugged, mollified a little now that they were respecting his demands. "Naw, just a chick, brown hair.. Uniformed, but the car was unmarked. One of those dark-blue numbers with pie-plates for hubcaps, like we can't tell it's cops!" he snorted.

Bobby thanked him. "Well, we don't wanna get anybody in shit, so we'll head out. Seeya." He gestured to Sam, who handed over the key.

The man took it, then tossed it away with a curse. "Lock's f~cked now. Bitch used a crowbar." He drew a last drag from his stump of a cigarette and threw it onto the pavement, then turned and headed back to his office.

Sam and Bobby exchanged glances. Horror, certainly. But it was tempered with some relief; at least they had a lead.

Bobby took charge. "Well, best gather up your things. This ain't gonna be our place tonight." He helped the stricken Sam collect everything and stow it in the truck cab.

When they were packed, he put a steadying hand on Sam's arm. "We'll find him Sam. Wherever he is, we'll sort it out."

Sam looked at him with the eyes of a deer in the headlights. Bobby steered him toward the cab and they climbed into the ramp truck and drove away into the dark.

* * *

><p>It seemed like several hours. Dean wasn't quite sure; his sense of time was off, he had no frame of reference; no watch within reach, no view of the outside. He knew his neck and shoulders were screaming from the position he was bound in. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. He was parched; his throat felt like it was sticking to itself. And after being dragged around, his side was a deep and steady beat of agony. He still hadn't been processed. He was no stranger to the routine that came with arrest. But none of what he'd expected had happened, and at this point he wasn't sure if he was relieved or worried. But he knew by now that something wasn't right. He'd have given his left nad just to lie flat on the floor for a few minutes, rats or no rats.<p>

By his estimation, it was about an hour later when she came back. She had some one else with her, an old fart who looked like her. He raised his head despite the stiffness of his neck as the garage door rumbled up and the two stood illuminated harshly by the fluorescent light. They entered the room and hastily shut the door behind them.

She was out of her uniform this time. Instead she wore jeans and a sweat shirt; perfectly comfortable for an evening's entertainment. The other one looked like he'd slept for a week in the clothes he was wearing. She pulled a folding metal chair up in front of Dean, and sat in it. She stared at him for a moment or two, her hands on her thighs, leaning forward tensely. She was pretty tightly wound. He watched a pageant of emotions cross her features…

He grew impatient. "Aren't you supposed to read me my rights or something?"

She stood up so fast that the chair skittered backwards, its legs screeching against the concrete. And she back-handed him viciously. "You have the right to remain silent. Happy now?"

Dean shook it off, spitting away the blood from his split lip. He started his mental inventory of things that he should probably avoid doing in future.

The older man with her sniggered.

She stood back and crossed her arms. "My name is Officer Laura Brennen. I know who _you_ are. "

Dean stayed silent, waiting for the rest.

"So I guess you're wondering by now why your arrest isn't going quite the way you're used to, huh..? Well, Dean Winchester; this is your lucky day.. Got a new system here; arrest, judgment and punishment, all one package." she smirked without humour.

Dean never had learned the lesson regarding when to shut up. "Yeah, I bet your precinct's real proud of you."

She hit him again, this time with a fist. He closed his eyes for a moment and silently told himself to shut his big mouth..

"You will, of course, claim innocence. You never did anything, did you, Dean? It's all a terrible misunderstanding, isn't it? Well here's a little refresher for you." She produced an ugly set of photographs, holding the first in front of him. It was a crime scene photo from St. Louis. It was horrible, and he looked away. She turned her gaze up to the older man. "Daddy; do you mind helping him focus?"

'Daddy' stepped behind Dean and held the sides of his head, forcing him to look at the image. The hands holding him were cold, they felt clammy. Dean became aware that the man had an odour about him. But whatever his age and hygiene issues, there was no denying that he was strong, and Dean soon realized it was useless to waste his own precious little strength in resisting. He sighed and stared dully at the pictures as she showed them one by one.

"You know what I'm showing you, don't you, Dean?"

"Yeah, I know the situation. I also know who killed that girl, and it wasn't me."

She snorted. "Surprise! See Daddy? Dean Winchester really is an innocent. Gee, maybe we should let him go." She sneered as she mocked him. She continued with her picture show. The next shot was of a different girl; it looked like a grad photo. She was smiling, holding yellow roses. She looked remarkably like the woman in front of him now. The following picture was of the same girl. It was another crime scene picture, and the image was brutal. Dean's eyes widened a little.

"Why are you showing me that? I don't know that girl! I never saw her in my life!"

She put the pictures down and leaned towards him. "Yes you do know her." she said with quiet menace. "Her name was Karin Brennen. You tortured her and killed her nearly four years ago, just like that girl in St. Louis, you vicious sonofabitch!"

He saw the bright sparkle of obsession, of madness in her eyes. _She thought he_... Now he did struggle, but those dead fish hands held tight. "You're crazy! I never saw her before, and I sure as hell never hurt her!"

Laura Brennen grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Her eyes were wild. "Shut your mouth! You killed my sister, and maybe you don't remember this either, but you killed my Dad too. But I prayed for him to come back and help me find you, Dean; and my prayers were answered. You see? My Dad is here with me again, and he knew just where to find you. He came back to me, only now he's stronger, and he can do things. He's an angel, Dean; he's your Angel of Death." She let go of him roughly, and Daddy did to. Dean dropped his head to his chest, then raised it, staring in shock at the two of them. _She prayed, and he came back_. This wasn't just her own twisted revenge... What the hell was he dealing with here?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Bobby found them alternative accommodations. He and Sam carried in what they'd need for the next few days and locked the truck. Sam produced the bourbon he'd rescued from the straw. He still hadn't developed a taste for the acrid stuff, but he appreciated the effect it offered. He poured the two of them several refills while he described their experiences with the kind and capable doctor Beth Macy. Bobby shook his head, muttering something sympathetic. But the conversation quickly turned to the present predicament.

"Looks like he's been arrested then, and sounds like the same cop, apparently. She seems to have taken some kind of personal interest in seeing him caught.." he mused.

Sam agreed. "It was a dark-haired woman officer the first time. So should we go to the station?...or call? What do you think?"

"You can't go near it, Sam; you're wanted yourself right now. I can go but I have to figure out what to say. I don't want to establish any link in their eyes; if they decide to haul me in for questioning, I'll be useless. I can't help your brother if I end up on the same side of the bars that he is."

"Anyway of checking for info online?"

"I doubt it. No, I think I'll have to get in there on some false pretense. I can claim there was a break-in in my truck or something. That's small potatoes; they won't even offer to send an officer so we'd be ok. While they take my statement I can look around, maybe ask some things. If he's in holding, I'd see him. In the meantime you could call the local hospitals; see if a prisoner was brought in for treatment."

Sam nodded, grateful that Bobby was with him during this crisis. He was so damned worried about it all; Dean's physical state, and his arrest. Both were serious threats to his brother's future.

"Sam, can you get me an address for the closest cop shop? I don't do that computer thing."

Sam smiled. He knew perfectly well that Bobby had more than the average skill in navigating the net; he was just trying to distract Sam. But he accommodated his request, finding the station that had jurisdiction, and the location. While he was at it he located the most likely hospital, his gut tightening involuntarily. "Let me call the hospital first," he said. "It might save you the trip." But after the call, it was clear that no one named Dean Winchester or any injured prisoners were there. That was good...or bad.

Bobby chewed up some mints to lessen the whiskey on his breath and prepared to leave. "I'll call you as soon as I'm on the road back, Sam. Sit tight in the meantime."

"Ok. Careful…"

Bobby winked. "It may look like plaid, Sam, but trust me; it's pure Teflon."

Sam snorted and shook his head.

* * *

><p>Bobby played the part of irate bumpkin well. He ranted that he'd left his truck unlocked for only a few minutes while he went in for some smokes, and someone had stolen his stereo. The police had little sympathy, but they humoured him by sitting him down and taking his statement. While that was underway, he scanned the precinct, looking for Dean in the visible holding cells. He also looked the staff over, hoping to see a female officer that fit. But he was disappointed, if that was the right term, on both counts. But as he was being patronized, he did make note of a name plate at an empty desk. -Officer Laura Brennen—<p>

They showed Bobby the door, with the assurance that they would treat his complaint with the utmost gravity and would look into it immediately. He nodded and grinned like a satisfied idiot. As soon as he was back on the road, Bobby called Sam. "B-r-e-n-n-e-n, Officer Laura Brennen…google her, Sam. Hers was the only empty desk that I saw that had a woman's name plate. There were no other matches as far as I saw. And the pens were empty, except for one drunk; nobody in holding. They said it was a quiet night; not much on the front so far. I'd think that if a televised fugitive were brought in it'd make a few more waves than I could see. Any word from the hospitals?"

"_Nothing; no Dean and no gunshot victims_."

"Ok. Well, I don't know what to think at the moment, Sam…but we can talk about it more when I get there. Find out whatever you can about her and let me know."

Sam checked that name. When Bobby pulled up, there was a wealth of information waiting for him.

Bobby sat on his bed after pouring himself a fresh drink. "Ok, what have you got?"

"Listen to this: Laura Brennen, who's a brunette, by the way; was the sole survivor of a home invasion around four years ago. She and her twin lived with their Dad on a small farm. They were nineteen at the time, and some guy came up to the house, blew away the dad and took the sister, Karin, away as hostage. They found her body a week later; she was beaten and sexually assaulted and left for dead. Looks like Laura joined the police force a few years later, after college. She's been written up three times recently, for citations of merit, for bringing in accused rapists. Shit, it sounds to me like she's on a mission, Bobby."

"Hmm...yeah, revenge for her sister. Christ, you'd think they'd see this kind of thing when they do the psych testing of recruits, for shits sake. Looks pretty plain when you see it on paper now." Bobby sipped his bourbon, thinking. Then it struck him. "Jesus, Sam; that's what this is about! Think about what Dean's accused of in St. Louis. It's a sex crime, that girl was assaulted, and beaten, and Dean's the suspect. She's been gunning for him for personal reasons. And if she has him, but never brought him in..."

"Then she's got him somewhere else, so she can bring on her own justice!" Sam finished.

It seemed possible Dean hadn't been arrested after all. But the alternative was worse; he could be in the hands of bitter and unhinged vigilante instead.

* * *

><p>Laura turned away from him in disgust. She found herself teetering on the edge of her deep emotion; she was too close to just blowing him away in that chair. But Daddy said it wouldn't be enough, that she'd regret not making him suffer for his sins. And she already regretted so much, and this was supposed to make her feel whole again. And there were his feelings to consider too. Dad had been mowed down in his prime; he had his own issues with that bastard. She walked away from her prisoner and picked up the metal chair, righting it and sitting down. She couldn't deal with him until she was a little calmer.<p>

She glanced at him again. He was still staring at them, still looked shocked. –_Good_—she thought. Maybe he was finally realizing there were going to be repercussions for what he'd done.

Daddy came up and rubbed her shoulders. It was strange…comforting, but he'd never have done that before. He referred to himself as Daddy; that was strange too. Never in their years growing up could she ever remember them calling him that. It was always Dad, or "Da". Not that it mattered, just semantics, that's all. The feeling was the same. But she was concerned by his pervasive and strengthening smell. She would have to insist that he bathe; this was unthinkable for the tidy father she remembered.

Daddy crouched in front of her, touching her cheek. "You're tired, aren't you, love? It's been a heavy day for us. Look, why don't you go home and take a break. We have what we want, there's no rush now, he's not going anywhere. When you're rested, we can do this as we've discussed, alright?"

She always found his words compelling, almost mesmerizing. Ever since he'd returned to her, his voice was like a soothing lullaby that she couldn't resist. She nodded, smiling wearily. "Yes…yes, Da. You always know best. Will you come too?"

"No, dear." he soothed. "I'll stay behind, just to keep watch. There are many conversations I'd like to have with our guest. I promise I won't finish him without you." He kissed her hair and she smiled. She got up and cast a glare of pure hatred towards Dean.

"You and my Dad can talk now. I'll be back, later." And she hauled up the door and left.

* * *

><p>Dean was left in the chilly quiet. He could hear his own breathing, fast and inefficient. He was apprehensive; fear growing like an icy blossom in his center. No sound at all came from Will Brennen.<p>

Will; or 'Daddy' —approached him and pulled up the chair. He sat uncomfortably close to Dean, and his eyes were twinkling with mirth. "A lot to digest, isn't it?" he smiled.

Dean wrinkled his nose at the smell. "She prayed, you came back. Sure, ok. So what are you then? You don't look like any ghost. Where'd you come back from? You sure as hell aren't dear old Dad."

Daddy Brennen sat back and chuckled. "Sure I am. I'm the spitting image of Will, right down to the whiskers. Who else would I be?"

"She said she prayed. Who'd she pray to? Who answered?"

Will stared at Dean. He kept staring, until his eyes changed, flooding with a fathomless black. His smile faded, and he seethed with evil. "Who do you think?"

Dean stared back in horror. "You...you're a demon." he whispered.

Will laughed. "Aw, you hunters. Can't pull the wool over your eyes, can we? Well you're bang on. Poor little Laura; all alone, abandoned by god. My Master saw fit to help her. And at the same time, we could take care of the annoyance that you've been. You know there's more to baby brother; I know you do. But there's so much your dear old Pop never told you. Your brother is headed for greatness, Dean, but you stand in his way. You're an obstacle; a pothole full of shit in his shining road to destiny. Every time we turn around, you're there, suffocating him with your 'protection'. We just can't have that. So you became a handy target for poor, overwrought Laura. After all; you did kill her sister. And dear old Dad." He laughed heartily at that.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "_That's_ what this is all about, then? Freeing Sam so you can turn him into some demon freak? Nothing to do with her dad, or her sister...none of it?"

"That's right. Poor dumb twit; she opened the portal with her need, but now she's just a handy tool. See, Dean; when someone prays hard enough to the Master; offers enough to him; it's like it opens a crack down to us. I was chosen to squeeze through, with this little mission. And hey, she's happy. She thinks her prayers are answered; her daddy's back, and she gets to see you pay for what happened to her family. And Good Sammy will fulfill his true destiny without having to haul around the dead weight of Big Brother. Everybody wins." He smiled unpleasantly. "Well...everybody except _you_."

Dean was trembling with cold, and with fear. A nebulous panic swirled through him; he felt weak from his wounds and his rough treatment. -And again with the _Sam's Destiny _crap; what the hell was all _that _about? "Why are you telling me all this? Don't you think I'll tell her everything you told me?"

"Go ahead!" he snorted. "You think she'll even listen to you? She's dead sure you're the one she's been searching for. You're the devil himself, as far as she's concerned. And here I'm the one who confirmed it; such tasty irony. After all, I'm Dad, I was there when it all happened; who would know better but me?"

Dean closed his eyes hard, fighting off a sickening vertigo that threatened his clarity. He wracked his brain frantically. "No, you're lying; you need a living host and Will Brennen's been dead for years. You can't be in him-"

"Yeah..." Daddy sighed. He pinched the greyish skin at his wrist, frowning as it failed to spring back. "You're right, Dean. Daddy Brennen was just a box of ashes. I had to make this halloween costume from scratch. I pulled every happy little memory she had to put it together; just about made me sick. I missed a detail or two, but a pretty good likeness, I think. But yeah, unfortunately it's got no juice."

-_no juice-? _Then he realized... The demon meant the form he was inhabiting was unnatural, lifeless. Nothing sustained it, and as a result… Dean's eyes narrowed, and he recoiled. "Jesus, that's why you stink! You can't keep it together, you're rotting in front of her!"

"Pretty much."

"Aw, that's gross!" Dean grimaced.

"Yeah, well, they're not always glamour jobs, but we'll take anything to get the chance to go top-side. But you understand then, that I'm on a tight schedule here. Can't have parts falling off in front of her, that'd get hard to explain. So that being said; she's expecting I'd do you some damage while she's out. With all our chit-chat, we're running out of time, and I don't want to disappoint the poor girl."

Dean didn't have time to voice a protest. He instantly felt a crushing pressure in his chest. He strained against his bindings with what was left of his strength, but they held tight. The demon stood with arms crossed, still smiling, as invisible coils squeezed and constricted his prey so relentlessly that the breath and blood were forced from him. Unable to inhale, or scream, Dean struggled desperately against the excruciating pain. He turned ashen, and losing strength, his eyes rolled up and he passed out.

_Daddy_ reluctantly released him. He had after all, promised Laura her turn.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7.

Bobby and Sam sat and discussed strategy.

"We need to call the station and ask for her. Maybe you should, Sam; different voice. We can find out if she's gonna be there tomorrow."

Sam nodded and found the number. He spoke to someone who said that Officer Brennen was due in tomorrow at nine.

"Good. We'll get set up by the station early and stake it out until we see a woman matching her. Then when she goes out, we'll follow her, see where she goes. I don't know what to do after that but it's a start." Bobby thought.

Sam agreed. "If she does have him in some other place, she'd be checking on him, I'd imagine." He hoped. If she no longer needed to check... He shook that thought away.

* * *

><p>When Officer Brennen returned, she found her Dad seated in the metal chair, whistling. He looked up and smiled at her, nodding his head toward their captive. She turned and looked. Dean's head hung limply against his chest, blood dripped slowly from his mouth. He was absolutely still, appearing lifeless.<p>

"Don't worry, love, I left you some."

She approached Dean and surveyed him. He was unconscious, that was obvious, his breathing ragged. She saw that his bandaged side, only spotted with red before, was now a dark, solid crimson. Oddly shaped bruises were darkening over his chest. She wondered what exactly Daddy had done to him. As she stood, she felt a flood of mixed emotions. With the others, those three earlier arrests; she'd felt a powerful feeling of righteousness. But they were never at a disadvantage the way this one was now. They were at least able to try to flee, or fight, and she beat them justifiably. But this was different…he looked pathetic, slumped there, trembling and bloody.

This scenario was what she'd yearned for, for a very long time; but seeing it now...it was intensely disturbing. And even if he deserved everything he would suffer, she couldn't help but be affected by it. She wasn't a monster, after all.

Daddy joined her. She noticed again his increasing rankness. "Ready to have a go?" he smiled.

She wanted to say yes…it seemed to please him. But the truth was, she needed some distance, after seeing the state of her captive. She wasn't ready to inflict more; maybe this was enough for now. After all, they'd agreed on six days…

Daddy saw the moral struggle in her. He frowned. "Now, love; you knew this was going to be harsh. Buck-up, sweetheart. We talked about this; you know he deserves this and more after what he's done. Remember poor Karin. She can't fight back now, but you can…for her."

Laura nodded, hesitantly, then with more conviction. Daddy always knew what to say. "Well, I guess we should wake the bastard then." She had a bucket of cold water sitting on the floor, she dipped a cup into it and tossed it into Dean's face.

He flinched and drew a sharp breath. He raised his head slowly, focusing with difficulty on the woman in front of him. He licked the welcome moisture from his mouth.

"Please…" he croaked. "Some water-"

"Don't." Daddy said.

"Dad, I don't want him to die of thirst, there's no justice in that." She dipped the cup again and let him drink a little, then dropped it back into the pail.

The water revived his senses. He had to get through to her, show her somehow what she'd really brought back. "Laura-" he whispered..

"Don't call me that."

"He's not your real Dad. That thing over there; it's evil, demonic-"

She got over her qualms and slapped him. "Shut up. He's as real as you are! He's everything I remember, and he came back to help me."

Dean shook it off and risked her ire again. "No! Please, listen to me! I know you prayed, but this isn't divine justice! Something else answered-"

She grabbed him by the throat. "Stop your lies!" she hissed, her fingers tightening.

"Not lying-" he choked. "Can't you smell it? That body is dead! It's rotting, he knows it!"

Her grip loosened for a moment and he took the opportunity to run with it. "That's crazy..._you're_ crazy!" she said

"No; hear me out, Laura! I'm not what you think! I never saw Karin, I never hurt her. It doesn't matter if you believe me or not, you can do what you like; but you have to send that thing back to hell where it came from!" he whispered in desperation. "It's not your father, it's evil! Look at it! Smell it, for god's sake! Look for all the details that are wrong!" He couldn't say more, as Daddy had come and leaned over her shoulder.

"What's he saying, love? Eleventh hour repentance?"

Laura backed away from both of them. "Y-yes, just as you'd expect. He's trying anything, wants mercy…"

But as she spoke, her mind whirled with what he'd said. There _were _details... 'Daddy' spoke to her differently; not at all the grumbling softie from her memories. His attentiveness, which she'd appreciated, was almost fawning. Dad's affection had always been shy and cloaked in gruffness. The dry wit was missing. So was his rich accent, even the timbre of his voice was slightly wrong. It was like she was watching a very skilled actor play a role in full costume; well rehearsed, and utterly convincing… And what of that damned odour?

But it was too hideous to contemplate. She shook her head, reminding herself of the source of these thoughts; a man who killed her father and sister with remorseless cruelty, and who would say anything now to save his own neck. She couldn't believe this was wrong now; it had felt so damned right. She looked at her father for reassurance.

Her Dad grinned and winked. Then he made a small gesture, and Dean's chair was flung over backwards with a violence that sent it screeching across the concrete. The old wooden chair shattered as it and its occupant struck the wall behind. Dean cried out on impact, but he felt blessed relief as the tight pull on his shoulders was released, and he lay still.

Laura stared at her father in shock. "How...did you do that?"

"One of my new gifts." he smiled benignly.

She tore her shocked gaze away from him and approached her captive. He was a tangle of broken chair parts and rope, and he coughed, winded, against the cold floor.

She nudged him with her foot, and he blinked a few times and caught her eye. He said something to her, she had to crouch down to hear, it was so quiet.

"Bring salt tomorrow… Please; you'll see why. A box of it. I'm not the evil here, I'll prove it..." He was blacking out. "Salt; pour a ring around me and you...demon can't cross it. Look it up, you'll see. He knows I'm not the one-" That was all he could manage before he slipped away.

Laura stood up, and stepped back in confusion, her discomfort deepening.

But Daddy was right there behind her, she had no chance, no distance from which to think clearly.

He sensed her turmoil. "Laura, do you want me to finish this now..?' he asked her softly, his hands on her shoulders, sympathy and concern dripping from his voice. "I can see this is too hard on you, love. Would you like me to end it?"

"No! No, Dad. It is hard, I won't deny it. But I do want what we said. Six days of suffering, just like he gave Karin. It's just going to be an adjustment for me. Please understand, I was schooled in upholding law, this is all so different…" She smiled at him and shrugged apologetically. "But I'm with you. I want this as much as you do."

"Good girl." He patted her arm.

"Dad, it's getting late; I need to sleep. Let's get back, we can have tea, you could grab a shower. This trash will keep until tomorrow." She gave Dean's still form a sharp kick, for emphasis.

"Ok, love. Whatever you want." He stroked her hair again, in a manner that now, under the circumstances, began to irk her. Dad would have chucked her under her chin, at best. He was now touching her so intimately; coaxing, almost like a lover. It was starting to disgust her a little. She shrugged him away.

Officer Laura Brennen turned off the meager fluorescent, and they rolled the door down. Tomorrow was another day.

Dean was oblivious. The cold and pain were, for now, far away.

* * *

><p>Sam and Bobby turned in early. They could do nothing more; tomorrow they would pursue their only lead. Bobby fell asleep quickly, but Sam wasn't so fortunate. He was too wound up, too fearful. And the older man snored with an impressive resonance that pierced the pillow when Sam held it over his own head to block the sound. Finally he got up and went back online. He re-read the information he had on Laura Brennen, trying to feel that he had a better grip on the situation. It didn't help; it simply reinforced the worry that Dean was in deep trouble and that Sam was powerless to do anything about it. He prayed fervently that following Officer Brennen was the right choice and that it would lead them to him in time. If it was a red herring… He swore and snapped the laptop shut.<p>

* * *

><p>Laura too, slept poorly. She rarely dreamt at all, after the loss of her family. She figured it was all part of the death of the whimsy and imagination within her on that ugly day. But she sat bolt upright, sweaty and horrified, at the nightmare that plagued her now.<p>

Daddy was the focus. He smiled sweetly as he held a struggling wild rabbit. She watched him stroke it soothingly, but still it kicked and screamed in his hands. She became aware of a tapping sound, and she turned away, in slow motion, toward a window. Two figures stood there. They were rapping the glass, trying to speak to her, trying to get her attention. She wandered closer and saw that, strangely, it was Dad again, and Karin stood beside him. They kept speaking to her, but it was if they were under water; she couldn't hear their words clearly, but their knocking at the glass turned into frantic pounding. It frightened her. She turned again to Daddy holding the rabbit. He smiled benignly at her and held the terrified creature up by the ears. His eyes transformed, to a solid black, and he continued his languid smile as he raised a knife to its throat, and slit it in one fluid motion. He held it out to her as blood washed down it's soft, brown body, held it until it stopped convulsing and was still. He winked at her and dropped it. She tore her gaze away from those terrible black eyes, turning instead to the dead thing lying on the pristine kitchen floor.

But it wasn't a rabbit anymore. It was Dean Winchester.

Laura turned on a light, got up and poured some water. It was just a dream, it meant nothing, she told herself. But she was deeply shaken. The damned dream was no less insane than her reality at the moment. She sat, in confused misery, going over everything of the past few days. None of it was rational. She was a respected cop, who had now kidnapped a man she thought was responsible for killing her family, with the aim of seeing him suffer for his crimes until he was dead. She had no real proof that he was the killer, but she'd been obsessed with the idea that he was the one she sought, and that everything would be right if she made him pay. And she had prayed. She'd cast her pleas indiscriminately; she never worried about who would answer them. And when her father had been miraculously restored to life, she never doubted the rightness of it all. And then he had confirmed, uncannily, conveniently, that she had the right one in her grasp. He told her exactly what she wanted to hear. She was seduced by her own need for revenge, and it had all worked perfectly in her mind.

But now she felt more clarity than she had in months. If all had been perfect, if there weren't these gaps, these strange inconsistencies, and if _he_, her damned prisoner, hadn't drawn her attention to the very things she wanted to ignore, she might have blithely continued on. She couldn't now. -_salt_— He said to bring salt; said that it was some sort of anathema to demons; a barrier. It was ridiculous, fairy-tale nonsense. Demons! Why was she even listening to him? it was just a desperate ploy. But she could hardly write this off as fantasy when her own long-dead father now lived and breathed again in the room next to hers.

_God,-what was she thinking_? This was wrong, all of it! It was bizarre, sick... A horrible, nauseating fear gripped her, and she fled to the bathroom and vomited.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Dean awoke in darkness. He was nearly convulsing with cold. His blood loss, and the icy concrete on which he lay chilled him to the bone. He was so damned thirsty. He focused his hazy thinking, remembering the bucket. He gathered himself and sat up. It was absolutely devoid of light in the room; he had to guess where to turn. He slowly kicked away the broken chair rung that his feet had been tied to, shifting and squirming until he was free of the tangle of rope. He had no luck with his hands. They were now much looser behind him, since the spindles of the broken chair-back had fallen away, but his wrists were still connected by a short length of rope. No matter how hard he twisted his hands, they were not going to be freed from the knots. But at least he could feel his hands again. The pins-and-needles were brutal, but welcome.

He managed to get to his knees, and he stayed there, swaying, until he was sure he could shuffle in search of the water. His face felt hot, despite his shivering. He was pretty sure that at least some of the stitches in his side were torn out when the demon crushed him. He knew he'd been bleeding, and lying on the filthy floor was the worst thing he could do. He wished he had a t-shirt on at least. His open shirt and thin pajama bottoms offered little comfort against the cold. And some socks would have been nice.

But he did find the pail, and he stuck his head into it and drank the cold water until he was forced to stop and take a breath. It was so damned good; better than anything he'd ever tasted. He panted for a bit, and drank some more. The water did him good, he felt a lot clearer. He was hungry; he couldn't remember when had eaten last, but it had been a while. He sat back in the disorienting darkness, drying his face on his shoulder. He had to get out of this prison, they were going to come back soon; any moment for all he knew. She was under the demon's influence for the last few hours; if he'd made any headway with her it was gone now. That thing would coax and cajole and convince until she was fully on board with torturing him to death, and he'd prefer not to be around when they came back to start on him. She was one screwed up chick…

He got back up on his knees and shuffled over to a wall, using it to stand. His side throbbed with any movement, but he tried to ignore it. He followed the room's perimeter until he felt the door, and the switch. He fumbled with his bound hands until he turned the light on.

-_shit_- He saw what he'd only felt before; his dressings were slipping down, saturated and useless. He'd have pulled them off if he could reach. He looked over his shoulder, turning his wrists to get a look at his watch. –_3:30-_ That meant darkness outside. _-good- _He felt safer if he could move around unseen; he was a bit of a spectacle at the moment and didn't want anyone calling the real cops.. He looked around for anything he could wrap around himself for warmth, but the only things he saw were some cardboard boxes and a plastic tarp. Not exactly cozy. He wondered if the tarp was meant to be used as his shroud, when it was all over.

He figured he'd better get to it. He searched for a latch for the door; no doubt it was locked from the outside, but there'd be a release from the inside for safety reasons. He found it, and rested momentarily, going over his plan in his mind. -_Get as far away as he could, and find a phone_— He turned around and gripped the release. The door popped, and he pulled it up as far as he could. It was open by a couple of feet; just enough to squeeze under. He did that; cursing at the pain when he rolled.

And then he was free. He was outside, in a chilly wind, with a thin dusting of snow swirling around his bare feet, but he was _free._

* * *

><p>Laura washed her face and sipped some water. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, wanting desperately to go back a few hours to when this all made perfect sense, and felt so right. But she couldn't. She decided to go down to her office. -<em>look it up<em>—he'd implored. Well, she was going to.

"Trouble sleeping, dear?"

Her father's voice caused her to jump. Daddy sat in the darkness. She turned on the light, and saw that he hadn't stirred from where he'd sat when she'd turned in earlier. His tea sat cold and untouched on the table beside him. She frowned at that. Dad lived on tea; he used to drink it a dozen times a day. She still felt slightly ill. The room smelled faintly like a piece of bad chicken that had been rolled in baby powder. She'd insisted that he shower when they'd gotten home; his odour had become impossible to ignore, and she'd hoped…well, she _really_ wanted proof that Dean Winchester was wrong. But the shower hadn't solved it; it seemed it had only lessened. And Winchester had said... She couldn't finish the thought, not with her touchy stomach at the moment.

"A bit, Dad. What about you? You should be in bed."

He chuckled. "Yes, dear, I should. But I was thinking too much." He leaned forward and touched her hand. His palm felt like cold rubber against her skin. She resisted her urge to pull away.

"I'm very sad that this thing weighs on you, Laura. I know we wanted justice for our Karin…but I won't have it at the expense my one remaining girl's health.. I think...that you should just go to work tomorrow, and forget about all of this. Things can go back to normal for you. You've built a life and career for yourself; it would be adding insult to injury if we let him ruin that. Let me take care of the rest, love. I think it's best…"

His voice was still so warm, so soothing. She still wanted to believe. She found herself on the verge of agreeing. It would simplify everything, she wouldn't have to have this terrible dilemma anymore. But it wouldn't be right.

"Let me sleep on it, Dad. I know you want what's best for me, but I don't want to have any regrets later."

"Of course." he smiled.

She smiled in return. "Now Dad; you really must go to bed. It's no good to sit here in the dark, thinking alone. You need to rest."

To her relief, he agreed. As he shuffled away, he said- "And don't you stay up too long, or I'll have to come down again and send you to bed."

"I promise, Dad. I'll just get some hot milk; then I'm back in bed."

"Good girl." And he headed up.

When she was sure he was gone, she slipped into the office and began her research. It took some navigating, but dammit, it was there, just as he'd said. Demons, salting the openings at doors and windows; ways to keep them out. The information, along with a hundred other archaic superstitions, was plainly displayed right there on her screen. He wasn't making it up. Her heart beat with a suffocating speed and she shut the computer off, fearful of being seen. She wasn't sure what it meant, or why Dean Winchester knew such strange things; but she knew she had to see,...to test it. If it didn't work, then he was a lying killer just trying to derail her. But if it did…if this really was something other than Dad— She shuddered at the thought. -_Demon_—he'd said. Something sent from Hell.

She wished she hadn't been so careless with her prayers. She was angry at god, but she'd never meant to call for help from below. It cast everything in a terrible doubt, including Dean Winchester's guilt. After all; wouldn't the devil applaud his sin, if he had done it?

She went to the kitchen and found the tin of salt in the dark cupboard. Luckily it was almost full. She tucked it into her briefcase by the door, and headed back up to her room.

* * *

><p>-<em>Ok, Maybe this wasn't such a great idea <em>- Dean thought, as he walked through the frost-stiffened grass at the roadside. He drew a sharp breath every time the damned wind sent a swirl of snow up a pajama leg, and his bare middle was freezing. He finally sat down on a guardrail, exhausted. This was stupid, he really needed to cut his hands free. He looked down, along the road edge, for anything; a can, or a beer bottle, anything that might have an edge.. He found a piece of a pop bottle, but it was frozen into the mud. He pried at it with his toes, cutting himself. At least he knew it was sharp enough. It resisted his attempts to remove it, however, and he had to abandon it and keep looking. His second find was more useful. He picked up the shattered piece of tail light and turned his wrists awkwardly until he could effectively saw at his rope. It seemed to take forever; the red plastic shard, although sharp, wasn't as keen as glass, and the nylon rope proved good and tough. His hand cramped repeatedly, but at last he felt the tether break, and he could finally use his hands. His first order of business was to pull off the wet and freezing bandages, and then to button his thin shirt. His fingers were stiff with the cold and he struggled with the simple task, but after some heartfelt cursing he finally got it. He felt much better once that was done. He pulled his shirt collar over his ears, wrapped his arms around his midriff and continued on in search of a phone.

No cars had passed him. He'd been walking for nearly an hour when a gas station showed in the distance. He nearly cried with relief. He picked up his pace, and made it to a glassed-in phone-booth at the corner of the parking-lot.

One inside, he realized that he didn't have a damned quarter. He nearly gave up right there, he was so tired and cold. -_think, Winchester_—he growled to himself. He punched zero, and when he got a voice he requested a collect call.

* * *

><p>Laura was awakened by her father. She squinted, irritated and tired, at the alarm clock. "Dad, it's 3:30!"<p>

"I know, love. But I have a feeling we should go back to the storage room. I'm worried he may be escaping."

As a matter of fact, the demon was sure he was. He was seething with fury. He knew the moment that pain-in-the-ass had sprung himself, but he could hardly keep revealing his demonic talents to Laura; her faith in him was already shaky enough. He shouldn't have accommodated her, he should have stayed behind and finished his job while she'd gone home. He would have gone and taken care of it himself now, but with this failing body, he needed Laura to get him there.

"Well, why? she asked, sitting up, "How do you know?"

"Just a sixth sense, dear. Hurry, now, go; before he hurts another Karin!"

Laura was confused and fearful. She had intended to see this through at a safer, more methodical rate, in the morning; this early hour panic was the last thing she wanted. She threw on her clothes, grabbed her gun and keys, and her briefcase as they headed out.

They got to the unit, and saw that it was open; light spilling out onto the snow. Laura got out and checked, knowing full well that he was gone. She surveyed the parking lot with a flashlight. It was windy; most evidence of his footfalls would have blown away. But she did see a slight disturbance in the white dusting on the asphalt; a change in the wavy pattern. They weren't footprints but they had a definite direction, one which led up toward the road. She got back in and headed up onto the road in the direction that seemed most likely.

"What does your "sixth sense" say now, Dad? This way?" she growled. She was very unhappy at this development.

"Yes, Laura; this way, dear." The demon was so sick of playing this smarmy, caring role. As soon as he had accomplished his mission, he was going to squash that bitch—

* * *

><p>Sam was awakened by his phone. He'd only fallen asleep an hour ago, but once there, he was so deep that it took six rings before he even knew what was disturbing him. "Hi...Hello, Yeah—" he said breathlessly, nearly dropping the cell. Someone, a woman, was asking him something; he agreed to whatever the operator said and then, to his profound relief, he heard Dean's voice. "Dean? <em>Dean<em>?"

"_Yeah-"_

"Where are you? Are you ok?"

"_Uh...I'm up the road from some sort of storage place. Yeah, Store-All. I'm at a gas station...wait—" _He squinted through the darkness at the sign. _"Looks like a Chevron. I don't...I don't know the road."_

"Never mind, I'll look it up! Are you ok? I mean you're not, I know, but...christ we were so worried; we didn't know, well I mean-"

"_Quit babbling Sam! Just get out here; I'm freezing_!"

"Ok. Stay on the line, Dean, we're coming now-"

"_Good…" _Once his goal was reached, Dean was utterly spent. He slid down the glass wall of the booth, his nerveless hand letting go of the receiver, and he rested in a shaking heap on the cramped floor.

Sam heard the sounds, followed by a groan. "Dean! Are you still there? Dean!"

Tucking his arms around himself to stay warm, Dean raised his head and acknowledged, directing his voice toward the dangling receiver. _"I'm here."_

"Hang on!" Sam roused Bobby, who threw on a coat and scurried to the truck to warm it up. Sam went online, got an address for the likely storage place, cross referenced it with Chevron stations, and got a street match, then leapt into the vehicle with the elder hunter. They roared out in search of the station.

All the while, Sam kept his brother talking. "Dean, are you hurt any worse?"

"_A little. Jesus Sam, it's a demon! She; the cop, she thinks it's her Dad returned from the dead-"_

_"_Laura Brennen-"

"_Yeah, that's right! She thinks I killed her sister, Sam, and her dad came back to help her...to help with her vengeance. But the demon doesn't really give a shit about that, it wants me out of the way...I don't know w-why yet, exactly….but…this is how…he got through…..some freaking demon-technicality." _He had trouble speaking, he shivered so hard now.

"Stay with me Dean."

_"I'm...tired, Sam…"_

"I know, but keep talking!"

_"They wanted to …make me pay… for hurting her. They had me tied in a storage unit." _Dean stopped, blinded suddenly by headlights. "Is that you, Sam? Shit, turn down your high-beams, I can't see!"

"What? ..No Dean, we're still on the highway-"

"_Aw crap_-"

"Dean! What's going on? Who is it? Dean!" Frantic, Sam strained to hear his answer, but what he heard instead froze his blood. He heard a thump, and then the unmistakable sound of his brother's howl, followed by an ear-splitting shattering of glass. And then nothing.

"Jesus, Bobby, floor it!"

He didn't have to say it, a grim-faced Bobby, hearing the exchange, had already red-lined it.

* * *

><p>Directed by her father, Laura Brennen had pulled in front of the phone booth. She saw immediately that he was right; Winchester sat huddled on the floor of the glass enclosure. For a moment her rage returned, and she drew her gun and yelled at him to get up and walk out. But he never had a chance to obey-<p>

Daddy, too, had left the car. He raised his hand, chanting something in words Laura didn't understand. Then she stood, open mouthed, as her hapless prisoner was drawn up the inside of the booth by a power that was clearly not his own, and pulled so hard against the thick plate glass that it shattered under the pressure and he was flung against the hood of her car. He struggled for a moment, terrified and disoriented, but he stayed there, unnaturally; crucified like some pinned moth. She tore her gaze away from him, staring at her father. She saw a fury in him that she had never witnessed before.

"Dad? Daddy..?" she faltered.

"Shut-up, Love! Daddy will handle this now!" He strode toward Dean, leaned over him, and gripped a hand viciously against his wounded side. "Beg me!" he snarled. "Beg my master to spare you!"

Dean's eyes widened, but he gathered a breath and growled back- "Go back to hell, you stinking sonofabitch!"

The Demon dug his fingers in hard, tearing the cloth and burying his septic yellow nails deep into the gash in Dean's ribs. The hunter arched against the hood and tore out a strangled scream.

"ENOUGH! Stop it! Dad, please—!"

'Daddy' laughed and released him, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence and stepping back as Dean slid off the hood and landed in a heap and curled up, moaning, on the ground at her feet. It was the rabbit of her nightmare all over again. "Fine, my darling Laura. _You_ do it. Kill him. It's what you want; you know it is…you brought us all to this!" He stood back with an exaggerated gesture of offering. His eyes were a solid black.

She was horrified, but she nodded. "Yes, Dad...it's what I wanted, just as you said. But not my gun. ..I want a knife!"

He grinned his approval. She reached into her car, pretending to retrieve one. She swiftly opened her briefcase and gripped the salt tin. She pried the lid off with shaking hands and dumped it in a hasty but solid ring around herself and Dean, finishing the circle in a panic as Daddy came round the car to witness. She threw the empty tin at him and tucked her limbs behind the safety of the unbroken salt line. Tears streamed down her face, and she howled at him-

"YOU- ARE-NOT- MY -FATHER!"

What she saw then, she would never forget. The figure that she had so willingly accepted as her kind and loving Dad now changed. It screamed in unearthly fury; lunging and clawing at them, but stopping each time just short of the salt line. –_he was right, he was right_- She wept in terror and covered her ears and shut her eyes, as it raged all around them. Dean was writhing in pain. She clung to him, whispering and sobbing; begging him to lie still, to stay within the safety of the circle; for the love of god, _don't break the line_-

At that moment, she heard the roaring engine of a truck. It screeched to a stop with a spray of ice, and two figures leapt out. When she dared to raise her head, she saw them splatter the demon with water, which steamed and bubbled as the creature screamed. An older man was chanting Latin as the younger one continued to shower it with water. Any resemblance to her Dad was gone. It distorted, twisted; and it plucked and tore at the dead flesh it inhabited, until black, sulphurous filth spewed from it's mouth in a final wail, fleeing like smoke into the pre-dawn sky. What remained, dropped lifeless, with a sodden finality, onto the pavement.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Laura felt herself brusquely pushed aside as Sam and Bobby knelt over Dean. "You have a first aid kit?" Bobby barked.

"Yes, in the trunk.." she replied, dazed. She moved to open it, and Bobby retrieved it along with an emergency blanket. She realized she knew the younger one; he was the brother. The older man was a stranger. She stepped back, out of the way, as the two of them attended their fallen companion. She heard him groan and curse as they wrapped him tightly.

Dean Winchester…once her enemy, her quarry…the rabbit in the jaws of the fox. And now her saviour. She continued to retreat from that scene, overwhelmed and beginning to react to the horror she'd experienced. She stumbled against the remains of what had been her father. No, that was wrong; it had never been him. She'd been seduced and fooled by this foul thing and she'd almost concluded a terrible, unconscionable act against an innocent person because of it. She stood over the body, stunned. A few features still reminded her of Will Brennen. But the rest was all so wrong…how could it be that she hadn't seen it? And the demon, in it's thwarted fury, had mutilated itself; or at least the flesh around itself, so that the result was a horrifying parody of her father.

Everything she'd done, everything she'd thought, for the last four years, was a mistake, a lie. She'd never had the means to avenge her family; it was all an illusion. She had, for a brief time, such an intoxicating sense of power and righteousness, but that was gone now. It was based on her own insanity, and fed on evil, until her twisted need for revenge grew and fattened like a hungry toad in her head. She stared at the ruined remains of everything she'd believed and wanted. And it lay there in a stinking heap, screaming at her that she'd regained nothing, -_nothing- _since that terrible day.

-_Forgive me_— she wept, -_forgive me_- Slowly, as if swimming under murky water, Officer Laura Mary Brennen drew her revolver, removed the safety, and pressed the muzzle to her temple.

* * *

><p>Bobby saw. He shouted to Sam, who looked up from his brother and immediately tackled her. She never even had the chance to get her finger on the trigger; Sam swatted the gun from her hand and landed on her, pinning her to the ground. "Don't you f-cking <em>dare!<em>" he growled, "You don't get off that easy!" He hauled her up by a wrist and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her harshly. "I don't give a damn what you do, but right now we need you! Get over there and warm that car up; you're driving!" He scooped up the gun and turned away from her.

She did as he said, having no will now to do otherwise.

Bobby had staunched the bleeding, at least for the moment. "Sam, can you get him into the back seat?' he asked. Sam nodded and scooped his brother up, sliding him carefully across the unmarked cruiser's seat.

"Get that heat blasting!" the young man ordered. Laura did as instructed.

Sam knew what had to be done. He approached the thing that had been Will Brennen and kicked it over, rolling it until it slid into the ditch. Bobby joined him, with a gas can in hand. They saturated the body with fuel, stood back, and tossed a match. Within seconds it was well on its way toward immolation. Bobby headed to his truck, and Sam opened the back door of the cruiser, carefully raising his brother's head and resting it on his lap. "Follow him." Sam ordered.

* * *

><p>Laura kept her car tight behind the ramp truck. Her mind and emotions, stunned into numbness earlier, had begun to whirl. She heard Sam talking softly to Dean; comforting, as the older brother struggled with the hurt. It was pain that she'd brought on him... Somehow she managed to keep her lane as her vision blurred with guilty tears. She stole a glance at the two brothers in the mirror. "I'm…..so….sorry."<p>

Sam's head snapped up. "Oh, you're _sorry?" _His eyes flashed with bitter fury. "What exactly are you sorry for most, Officer Brennen? "

"Sam-" Dean whispered.

"For shooting him? For kidnapping him out of his bed? For trying to torture him to death? Or maybe for calling in the devil's own to help you with all of it?"

"Sam, don't-"

But Sam could not stop his angry tirade. "Would you like me to describe how it felt to hold my brother down on a barn floor, watching and hearing him scream while a bloody veterinarian dug a bullet out of him? Are you sorry for that too?"

"Sam! Leave her alone!" Dean ground out.

Sam stopped then, his throat tight with suppressed rage. The rest of the drive was silent misery, with the exception of Laura's quiet sobbing, and Dean's raspy breathing. She pulled in beside the truck as Bobby stopped at the motel. "We...we should go to emergency." Laura faltered through her tears.

"Can't." Bobby said curtly. "And you damn well know why."

She did.

* * *

><p>Sam gathered Dean up as Bobby opened the door, and he carefully deposited him on one of the beds. Dean was trembling with cold; Sam pulled all the blankets from both beds and piled them around him, but they didn't seem to help much.<p>

"Get those ropes off his wrists." Bobby barked to her. Laura nodded, and knelt beside him, picking at the knots and unwinding the cord; cord that mere hours ago she'd cinched tight herself. She saw the abraded impressions left on his skin, and she looked away.

Sam still seethed with anger. "Sorry, Officer; is that too hard for you to see?" he spat. "How 'bout you look at this, then?" He was unwinding the bandage from Dean's side so that he and Bobby could deal with it. The ragged wound welled with dark blood; it clung like tar to tidy little stitches, torn out and useless.

She blanched. ''Oh my god..."

"What happened, before we got there?" Bobby asked her.

She looked at him, trying to force her resisting mind back down that route. "He escaped. Daddy; that _thing_, knew it somehow, and we went to where it said he was. It pulled him through the glass, onto the hood of the car. He...he couldn't get free, and it said something and grabbed him, it clawed him. I made him stop, and said I wanted to do it...but I poured salt around us instead..and it worked."

"How did you know, about the salt line?"

"Dean told me, when he was still tied in the room. He said it would prove it wasn't my dad...that it would protect us... He told me to look it up. So many things were wrong; little things... I needed to find out. So I put the tin in my briefcase. I thought it was crazy, but, really, it _all _was. And he was right." She shuddered, remembering. "And he said the body; the demon's body, was a dead thing...that it was rotting, even though he looked...he looked so much like my Dad."

Sam turned away from her and continued his ministrations over his brother. "He was right; that body was a dead vessel. The demon would have needed something to start with; it probably got the details of your dad's appearance through reading your mind, or your memories. But there'd be gaps; things he couldn't know that would be important. Then it would've needed flesh to build with; they sometimes cause animals; goats, sheep, to abort, and they use the fetus as building material, while the cells still have life. They sort of grow it, sculpt it, into what they need. But it's a last resort, for obvious reasons. They'd rather possess a living person." He said it all so matter-of-factly, like he was discussing some normal, scientific phenomenon. She listened with revulsion, remembering it's kiss on her cheek, the times it touched her face. She wanted to throw up. But instead, Laura gathered her nerve and sat beside the bed, rubbing Dean's cold hands to restore some warmth. He turned to her and mouthed something.

"thanks."

She thought he meant for her attention to his hands, but he shook his head. "No, for ...bringing the salt...for believing me." he whispered through his chattering teeth. "Saved my butt."

Laura sat still and stared at him. She couldn't believe he was thanking her, after everything... She let go of him and buried her face in her hands.

Bobby took her aside. "Listen; we're all gonna sit down later and talk about this. There's alot we need to know, and more that you need to hear. Never mind Sam right now; you have to understand his anger. That's his only family there, and I know you understand how it feels to lose that. But listen; you can make this better right now. He needs a doctor, and we can't take him in. Can you safely bring one here, Laura? Use whatever ruse you have to, but we need one right away, and we need secrecy!"

Laura took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes. I can do that. I'll go now. But I need away to contact you; I'm not sure how long it will take. What should I tell them?"

"Tell him we need some wound repair and antibiotics, and some serious pain killer. He lost alot of blood, but Sam is a match, and we just need the means to transfuse. Other than that he'll know what to do."

"Anything else? He's so cold, I can get hot water bottles-"

"Yeah, that would be a real help. And Laura, we're counting on you now. Don't let him down."

She nodded wordlessly. Bobby gave her his cell number and she left.

"You trust her?" Sam asked.

"Don't have much choice."

* * *

><p>Sam re-bandaged the wound tightly as Dean groaned. He was still shaking uncontrollably with cold. Sam pulled off the wet clothes and concentrated on warming him.<p>

"shouldn't have told her that shit about the demon." Dean whispered.

"Shhh. Don't waste energy. And anyway, she deserved to be shocked." Sam kicked off his shoes and pulled his coat off, then climbed under the covers with him. "I'm just warming you up, don't get any funny ideas."

"Dream on," Dean shivered- "I don't do pity dates."

All they could do now was wait, and hope, that Officer Brennen would come through.

Bobby rubbed his prickling eyes and sat watching the brothers with a sad fondness. Dean; whether having passed out are fallen asleep, had stopped shivering and was out of it, and an exhausted Sam snored softly beside him. He'd heard from Laura; she'd had to go to find a suitable doc at the regional hospital, which was over an hour away. She was waiting there now while he finished up in surgery, after which she would bring him back. He hoped they'd hurry. If that damned thing got its filthy nails into him, there was no telling what pathogens were running through his blood, and the sooner they got him on something to combat it the better. He was tired himself. He leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

* * *

><p>The screech of a cell phone woke both he and Sam. It was Laura again, telling him they were leaving the hospital.<p>

Sam sat up beside Dean's still form. He felt the dampness of his shirt where it was in contact with Dean's back, and he leaned over and touched his face.

"Well, hypothermia's not an issue anymore." he said grimly.

Bobby checked, alarmed at the sudden rise in Dean's temp. "Damn." It was just as he feared. Dean's skin was starting to run with sweat; little rivers of it were disappearing into his hair and the sweatpants Sam had put on him mere hours ago were already clinging to his damp body. He'd started to tremble again.

"Is she coming with help?" Sam demanded.

"They're on their way now, Sam. They have to come from Ennisville; it's an hour from here. Should be here in about 45 minutes."

"She better be." He checked and was relieved that there was no blood coming through the last binding, and settled against him again, putting an arm over Dean's shoulders to try to relay some warmth and comfort. Dean didn't seem to be aware of anything. After a while, the trembling stopped.

Sam 's worry went into overdrive. "He's getting really hot, Bobby...better get a cool cloth or something."

Bobby checked, frowning with concern, and rose to get a washcloth. He turned as Sam called out.

"Shit! Bobby, help me, he's seizing!" Sam could feel as Dean's muscles suddenly went rigid, and waves of shaking passed through him, like an electrical current. Dean opened his eyes for a moment. They were wild with fear, and he choked out Sam's name once before they rolled back.

"It's alright, Dean, help's coming! Ride it out, we're here!" Sam spoke calmly, reassuringly, as he held him still, until he felt it pass and Dean was quiet again. It was a calm that was purely illusion. "Jesus christ, what the hell is taking them so long?" Sam growled. "If she's screwing around, I swear I'll put that goddamn gun back in her hand and pull the trigger myself!"

Sam was beside himself with worry. Bobby could see the tears in his eyes. He knew his words were just that; words. He felt the same frustrated and impotent worry himself. Every minute that passed sent infection further through Dean's system, and he was too weak to battle something like that now. He feared they could run out of time at any moment.

"They're coming, Sam, they're coming. Let's get him cooled down."

He returned to his task of getting a cool, wet towel; running it over Dean's face and neck, and then his chest and arms. Dean flinched at the cold. At least it was a normal reaction.

"don't-"

"Sorry, dude; if we don't cool you down you'll spontaneously combust."

Bobby crouched to make eye contact. "Are you hurting bad, Dean? I can give you more aspirin but I can't give you anything else; might interfere with the doc's work, when he gets here."

"..rather have a drink."

Bobby gave him his preferred painkiller, holding the mug of bourbon and feeding him small sips until he was too tired to have any more. He lay back down against the stained pillow, shivering again.

"Feel better?"

"Yeah." Dean lied. In reality he felt strange, like there was a fluid layer between himself and the world. His wounds didn't hurt as much anymore, but the pain had migrated, he felt a throbbing ache under his arm, and spreading across his chest. He didn't bother telling them; there was nothing they could do. Instead he closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>At last the much anticipated knock came, and Laura entered with her surgeon in tow.<p>

Before Bobby could speak, she introduced them. "Sorry for the wait, we came as fast as we could. Dr. Ravindran, this is Officer Singer and Officer Winch of Philadelphia. Doctor; these men are a part of an undercover operation currently underway. The man needing attention is also an officer but I'm not at liberty to reveal his name. Officer Winch, could you fill the doctor in on what happened? With the understanding, of course, that there are areas that can't be discussed so that this investigation isn't compromised." Laura performed flawlessly. She was fully decked out in uniform; she'd obviously felt it was important to change before speaking to the doctor. It was good strategy; it added an air of official sanction and legitimacy that would have been missing if she'd been in street clothes.

Both men nodded their greeting to the surgeon.

Laura handed an electric blanket to Bobby. "Thought this would be more effective."

He nodded and put it aside. Sam filled the doc in while he went through his checks. When the man was finished, he said, "His fever is dangerously high. Blood pressure is low. Which of you is a match for blood type?"

"I am" Sam answered.

"Good." He continued his work. "Did you say he experienced a seizure?"

"About twenty minutes ago; he's been quiet since."

The doctor set up an IV. He then examined the injuries. "What exactly did he get himself into after the initial wounding? The timeline you indicated is pretty short for this level of infection."

"The graze was torn open by...well, it was torn open again. The individual responsible for that was very ...unsanitary."

"Judging from his temp, and his vital signs, he's got something nasty going through his system at the moment. I'll set him up on something strong to combat it. But he needs blood and hydration to begin with. Do you mind?"

Sam offered his arm. "We're fully compatible. We've donated to each other before."

"Good. Your colleague is pretty sick. I understand your need for secrecy and I'll honour it but I want it on record that I recommend immediate hospitalization. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes sir."

"Fine. Let's fix him up as best we can, then." The doc proceeded to sedate Dean, and he cleaned and sutured the damage. He checked the other wound, and noted that it was healing and not a danger. He started him off with a shot of powerful antbiotic, and once the transfusion of Sam's blood was complete he added an IV of more. "Well; that's as much as I can do here." he said, washing up. "Your friend here is suffering from some significant septicaemia. But the drug he's on now is specific and powerful; I think it should contain it.. Other than that, he's healing alright; at least the lower wound. The other one was a nasty tear, but it's cleaned up now. Keep checking his temp; we need to see that go down fairly soon, otherwise we may need to change to a different drug. You'll know within twelve hours if we're beating it." He wondered what was responsible for the strangely shaped bruising, but he didn't ask. Instead he packed up his things and wished them well.

* * *

><p>Laura walked him to the car, and left him there for a moment, returning to the room. She stood just inside the doorway, watching Dean. Images flew in her mind; her father...the demon's remains. Of Dean, standing by the car, moments before she shot him...and later, his earnest insistence that he was trying to help her when he was tied and bleeding in the storage unit. She had much to answer for. She shifted her gaze to the younger brother. He looked haggard, and pale. She watched as he tugged the covers up and tucked them gently around his brother. She wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come. What could she say that could possibly make a difference...?<p>

Bobby was watching too. He was a keen judge of humanity; he had to be. And he saw her fear, and her conflict. ...And her sorrow. He had a pretty good idea of how it all came about. The trauma she'd suffered brought her to the point where she'd considered any help to feel whole again, regardless of the source. She wasn't trained to recognize what was in front of her; few people were. And it was the nature of the demon to seduce and to deceive; it created a mantle of imagery that she desperately wanted, and needed. After her trauma, there was no way she could have known its true nature. He knew she had never meant to summon something like that. He rescued her from her need to say anything. "Thank-you, Laura. I have no doubt that you saved his life by bringing that doctor here."

She looked at him, her eyes brimming. She tried again to say something, but Bobby just shook his head and embraced her. He spoke to her in a whisper. "We'll talk about it all later. You didn't know what was really happening here, kid. This was something way out of your league. I know he won't blame you."

Any remaining walls she had shattered at that, and she sobbed quietly on his shoulder. When she could get a grip on herself, she pulled away and rubbed the wet from her face and eyes.

Bobby smiled wearily at her. "Now get that doc back to work, and then go home. Rest; call in sick, whatever; but go take some time."

She nodded. "I'll come back-"

He smiled wearily. "I know you will."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

They'd done everything they could. Dean had been treated and medicated, and was as warm and comfortable as they could make him, but after several hours, it was clear to Bobby that something was still very wrong. He'd told Sam that he would do first watch; he could see the exhaustion wilting him. Bobby had at least slept decently; Sam had lain awake for most of the previous night. The younger man reluctantly agreed, and was now asleep.

Once the sedation had worn off a little, Dean seemed to be trapped in some sort of nightmare state of R.E.M. Bobby did his best to penetrate his fevered state of mind with soothing words and cool towels, but still he jerked and moaned and fought against whatever terrors were vexing him. _Twelve hours-_the doc said they'd know within twelve hours if the med was effective. Well; four hours had passed, and it seemed that Dean still struggled feverishly against the insidious adversary of infection. He certainly struggled against something.

Bobby was mopping his brow for the hundredth time when Dean bolted upright; eyes open, and terror-filled.

"Easy, son; it's Bobby. It's ok."

"Bobby?" Dean croaked. "I can't ...can't see you-"

Bobby placed his hands on his shoulders, trying to lay him down again. "Dean, what do you see?"

Dean shuddered and breathed with panicked gasps. "Burning...blackness...evil ...it's Sam, they want Sam!" He tried to get up, a terrible urgency consuming him. "Demons! Bobby, they want Sam! They said they have plans, some destiny! They're trying to get me away from him!"

Bobby forced him flat against the pillow, worried he'd tear out his IV, or hurt himself. "Nothing will happen to Sam, he's here and he's safe. It's ok-"

"No!" Dean cried hoarsely, fighting weakly against Bobby's hands. "I can see them, Bobby; they want to claim him! Where's Dad-I need Dad!"

For a second Bobby had difficulty containing him, but his eyes rolled up again and his body tensed in the grip of another seizure. Bobby held him still, to minimize his thrashing. Sam was now awake, and he hovered fearfully. Dean was still trying to speak, he stayed conscious throughout it this time. They felt him relax finally, and he seemed to drift away. "We gotta get that Doc back, this isn't working!" Bobby said grimly.

Dean heard. "No, no doctor! A priest!"

"It's just the fever, Dean," Sam comforted. "You're sick, you just need to-"

"No..no.." Dean sobbed, completely distaught now and twisting away from their hands, "It did something! I can feel it, crawling in my veins! You've gotta stop it! I can see it, like it's in front of me!"

His terror was very real. Sam's mouth went dry. "Dean? What is it?"

He whispered. "Hell! It's Hell-" He shuddered and passed out.

Bobby swore. "Sam, get me the book from the glove box, quick!"

Sam did so, returning with an ancient, cracked leather volume that Bobby never travelled without. It was his most precious bible; chronicling most of the evils they would ever have the misfortune to face, and many of the ways to beat them. He flipped through it impatiently, back and forth, mumbling to himself...

"What, Bobby? What's happening to him-?" Sam demanded anxiously.

Bobby shrugged him off and continued poring over the pages. "Hang on, here's something-" He sped over the passage, eyes flicking back and forth. "Sam, listen: -_And they were torn by the demon; it touched its hand unto their blood, after which their eyes saw naught but the fires of hell" _He exchanged a glance with Sam. _"They sickened then, with fever; wailing of visions and writhing fearfully, until the first tore out his own eyes, so that he would not witness such horrors, and the second opened his veins, so that he would not live with such atrocity. But the third was bound and brought to the church, where he was baptized in blessed waters until the demon's touch had left him-"_

"Jesus-!" Sam muttered.

Bobby rubbed a hand over his chin. "He's right, Sam; meds aren't gonna undo this. We need holy water, we need a priest-!"

"A bath of holy water? There's not even a tub in this dive, only a shower."

"Aw hell! Then we need to go where we can get him under water. I'm gonna call Laura."

Despite his misgivings, Sam nodded. She was the only one who knew them and was aware of their need for discretion. Bobby did so, and when he had relayed their urgent request, she agreed to leave the house open for them and to go to the priest that was familiar with her family. She gave directions to her home.

"Right, Sam; gather him up, I'll carry the IV stuff. We can go to her place now, she's fetching the priest."

Sam pushed his hands under Dean's knees and shoulders. He was limp, Sam could feel the burning heat of his brother's skin against his own. He pulled him forward, and stood up, carrying his weight against his body. He wished the Impala was off the tow bed; it was a helluva lot quicker than the ramp truck. Bobby moved just ahead of him, carrying the IV and opening the door. As soon as they were settled, Bobby threw it in gear and tore out of the parking lot in the direction of Laura's house.

* * *

><p>"No. I'm not joking, and I'm not crazy, Father Patrick." Laura spoke earnestly with the man who'd seen her mother put into the ground, and who'd baptized her and her sister as infants; the man who'd helped her bury all the people she loved.<p>

"But dear, do you know what it is you're saying? The implications-"

"Father, I do know. In God's name, believe me. I've seen the devil himself, I swear to you and heaven that I know what I'm saying. Father Patrick, please; bring your books, whatever you need; but I'm telling you the truth. It's a demon you need to deal with now, it's no delusion!"

The old priest stared at her, gauging her sanity. Laura Brennen had been through a great deal of trauma, and it could be affecting her mind now. Her story was absurd, really, but she didn't seem out of control, or wildly impassioned. He knew her to be a very direct and no-nonsense, like her father was. She wasn't flighty. In the end he decided she spoke lucidly enough to know what she was suggesting. "Laura, I've known you, known your family for decades. If you feel this is really happening then I am in no position to argue. I've never dealt with anything like this, but it certainly has a deep history in the Church. I know there's protocol; there are words, methods. We learn of this, some of it, but few of us ever have the rotten luck to meet with it."

She almost cried in her relief. "Thank-you Father."

The two of them raced back to her home.

* * *

><p>The ramp truck sped towards the same destination.<p>

"Jesus, hurry, Bobby!" Sam clutched Dean close, feeling his every strained breath, the tremors, the spasms. He'd seen living things die, more than he cared to remember, and he knew this was bad. "It's getting worse!"

"Almost there." Bobby glanced in the rear-view, watching Dean, reassuring himself they weren't too late. Dean coughed and moaned in Sam's arms, words occasionally coherent enough to make out; -_demons -a chosen one-destiny-_

Sam didn't want to think about what it was that terrified his stalwart brother so much; instead, he kept up a litany of calming words, praying it made a difference.

Bobby breathed a shaky sigh of relief when they pulled into Laura's driveway. She met him there. "Bring him in here." she directed, holding open the door to the hallway.

Sam gathered him up again and hauled his brother into the livingroom. He laid him on the sofa, nodding a greeting to the man who was already in the room. Bobby came in a moment later. "Are you the priest?" he demanded.

"Yes...yes, I'm Father Patrick Dennehy."

Bobby thrust his book into his hands. "Read that passage, fast. We need you to bless the water. If we don't get him under now, he'll die!"

Sam pushed past the two of them. "Where's your tub?" he demanded of Laura.

She led the way, and he began to fill it. Leaving Sam to complete that task, she rejoined the men in the living room. Bobby was explaining the crisis. Father Patrick was shaking his head in disbelief.

"Listen to me!" she interjected, "Father Patrick, I brought this thing, this demon, here. I prayed for help, to avenge Dad and Karin, and what came to me... I thought Dad had come back. But it wasn't heaven that heard me, it was the Devil. Something came in the form of Will Brennen, but it was evil, Father, it was...it was sick. And it tried to kill this man here...it tried to make me kill him. I almost did."

Bobby interrupted. "Father, he was wounded, and when this thing touched him he was poisoned by something demonic. He's consumed by terrible visions, or something... This passage says if we immerse him in holy water, the demon's touch will leave him. Please...help us! Bless the water, we'll put him in the bath. I'm asking you plain, even if you don't believe, how can it hurt?"

Father Patrick looked at them as if they were all mad, but he nodded. It was the power of God they were turning to, and he was his servant. After all...what could it hurt? He followed Laura to the bathroom. The tub was already filled. He glanced at her, and saw the earnest fear in her eyes. _-This girl has seen the devil himself more than once_- he thought.

He kneeled and closed his eyes. Clutching the crucifix at his throat, he chanted the words over the water, ending with a sign of the cross. He took the cross from around his neck and placed it in the bath. And with that simple bit of ceremony, the water was now holy. He'd never really understood the concept of blessing water. Deep down, he'd thought it was just a superstition continued through the ages to help boost the confidence of the faithful. But he hoped it really was more. He nodded to Laura that it was done.

Laura hurried back to the livingroom. She stood transfixed, as the two men pinned Dean Winchester down against the sofa. He was clearly in the throes of some sort of fit; he was rigid and white-faced, his features twisted and frozen in terror. She shook herself out of her trance. "It's ready!"

Bobby and Sam hauled Dean up and carried him into the bathroom. The dunked him swiftly into the water. Once immersed, he began to thrash; screaming as if the water was boiling the flesh from his bones. Translucent tendrils of red snaked away from his wounds, turning the water a shade of pink. Laura and Father Patrick stood back in horror as Bobby and Sam held Dean's body fully under. Seconds, minutes, ticked by. Dean struggled and squirmed in agony, but they held him firm, never letting him out of the blessed water. Father Patric fearfully began to recite the Lord's prayer out loud. At last, Dean stilled. His resistance to the holy water slackened, and he slipped into a limp quiet. His hands floated, as errant bubbles escaped from his mouth. Panicked, Sam looked to Father Patrick, and then to Bobby. Both men were at a loss, praying the sacrament was done, and that the cure hadn't cost Dean his life.

They lifted his still, white face out of the water, waiting anxiously for him to breathe.

"Come on...come on!" Sam begged. He pressed on his chest, forcing water out. over and over. At last they were rewarded by a coughing gasp.

They all breathed with him in relief. Father Patrick closed his eyes and mouthed a thank-you. Laura began to sob quietly. Bobby swiped at his own eyes and brusquely took charge. "Ok, let's get him out and dried. Laura, do you have a bed we can use?"

Laura nodded and led the way to a spare room. There, they stripped Dean of his wet clothing. He was deathly still; his wounds still weeping dilute blood. Sam tried not to see the taut translucence of his features as he re-bandaged his side and tucked warm blankets around him. He settled in to keep a tense vigil at his brother's bedside.

Downstairs, Laura poured brandy for Father Patrick and Bobby. Father Paddy was shaking, he barely got the glass to his lips. Bobby smiled a little wry smile. _Priests_. Very few of them understood the power they were entrusted with.

Finally the priest found his voice. "Alright then. Some one want to tell me what in bloody hell that was?"

Bobby sighed wearily. "_That_, Father, was a little example of the power of your adversary. Call him what you want; Lucifer, the Devil, whatever. It ain't metaphorical. They're not just stories to scare folk straight, Father. Hell is real. And it's full of evil things that are clamoring to get up here and do mayhem. That young man upstairs has made it a vocation to hunt the devil's own when they stray up here on earth, and sometimes the score gets damned close. But not today, thanks to you. We thwarted him tonight. At least I hope we did."

"I...don't understand-"

"You sure you want to?"

The priest sunk into silence. He wasn't sure that he did want to know.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Bobby gave a skeletal account of the events to Father Patrick. The poor man sat, dumfounded and unhappy at the knowledge.

He shook his head. "I'm an old man... Spent my life trying to teach the disinterested about the love of God and the power of good. I know there is another side, but in this day and age we don't dwell on that part. I suspect the Vatican libraries are brimming with literature on the subject of evil in all its forms, but we don't ever seem to need that kind of thing down here on the bottom line."

Bobby simply nodded a response.

Father Patrick continued. "Your friend up there; Dean? You say he hunts these...these evils, as a vocation? How did he know to hunt it here?"

Bobby weighed his answer. "Father, we, uh...have a sort of network. We hunters; some of us anyway, try to keep each other informed of incidents that could mean a demon presence. But this case was different; the roles were reversed. Laura Brennen; because of her state of mind, prayed hard for any help to avenge her family, but she had no idea what had answered. That demon used her to come into this world, but it wasn't interested in her quest; it had a different agenda. It came through to wreak havoc for a specific hunter." He looked to make sure that Laura was still out of earshot in the kitchen. "Father, she was in the company of a demon that took the form of her father. It manipulated her into believing that Dean was the one responsible for her tragedy. She shot him, and very nearly killed him. But he managed to get her to see that things weren't right, and in the end it was Laura who helped bring that thing down."

"Bring it down...so it's gone back to hell, then?"

"Back?" Bobby sighed. "No, I don't think so. We cast it out of its form this time, but it's out of the gate now. It's here to stay, unless we can trap it and send it back for good. And it seems to have some mission to fulfill; one that involves those brothers. I expect we'll be seeing it again."

Father Patrick simply stared in response. He didn't know what to say to these people; they knew so much more about all this than he did, and he felt powerless to offer any comfort. "And the young man; Dean...he'll recover?"

Bobby's expression softened. "I expect so. He's a tough SOB, that boy. I've seen him get up from worse."

Father Patrick frowned. "I pray that he will return to health, then." He glanced at Laura, still in the other room. He was distant for a moment, weighing his words. "You know, she never healed, after her Dad and sister were so brutally taken. This business of joining the police force; it's not her, not her true nature. She was poised to go to college for fine art studies. She was a fine painter. She showed real talent, real promise." He looked down, knowing he was breaking a sacred confidence. "She confessed to me, just after it happened. She was looking for forgiveness; she told me that when that man came into the house, she hid in terror under her bed, cringing with every scream. To this day she feels terrible guilt that she hid rather than somehow defend her family. She felt she had cheated somehow by not dying with them. I told her there was no sin to forgive, that she wasn't responsible. But she could never forgive herself. Rotten business!"

Sam had come down from his vigil in time to hear the conversation. He stood in silence, listening to the old priest explain these things. He sat down, with a deep and weary sigh. He wanted to keep hating her for what she'd brought down on them, on Dean. But the more he heard, the more he understood her. And she had done everything possible to counter it, to correct her terrible mistake. He knew she wasn't really responsible for what had unfolded; she was only a minor cog in the greater scheme. After all, the demon had immediately forced its own agenda the moment it had gained a foothold on earth. It wanted Dean; it wanted him to suffer and die. But _why? _Why was it so determined to destroy him? They'd never before been targeted like this, in all their years of hunting. It unnerved him completely, the thought that the other side was now gunning equally hard for them.

"How is he?" Bobby asked, breaking his train of thought.

"Quiet…still and quiet. This pretty much wrung everything out of him, but he's already cooling down. He doesn't seem to be battling anything at the moment. He seems peaceful."

Laura offered Sam a drink as she had the others, and he gratefully accepted. She handed him the glass, unable to meet his eyes.

"Laura, wait..." he said. He caught her hand.

She winced and turned to hear him, expecting more of his wrath.

"Look, I just...wanted to say thanks, for your help. I know you've been through hell yourself. I know why you needed revenge. And Dean, more than anyone, would understand that. I know he does."

She managed to keep her composure, at least on the outside. She found some fragment of her voice to answer him. "Thank you." The words caught in her throat, but she over came it. "I swear to God, I'm about to lose what's left of my sanity after all this horror, but hearing that from you..." She couldn't finish. She stood, staring at the floor in silence as tears fell in steady drops at her feet.

"Why don't you go check on him? I need to talk to Bobby for a few minutes." Sam said.

She nodded, and turned away.

Bobby was proud of him. He knew how hard it was sometimes to forgive.

* * *

><p>Laura pulled up a chair close to the bed. After everything she'd seen Dean suffer, she thought he did seem to be peaceful now. She tried to keep all the ugliness from flooding her mind as she watched his steady breathing. She had a powerful urge to flee, to turn away and run from what she'd brought about, but she knew she had to see it all through. She owed them that; christ, she owed them everything she could offer. She startled as he turned and moaned, and she darted a hand forward to touch his forehead, fearing he was feverish again. He was still cooler. He opened his eyes as she drew her hand back.<p>

It took him a moment to focus. "Laura.." he whispered.

She nodded, shaking and wiping the blurriness from her eyes. "Do you want your brother?"

He shook his head slightly. "No."

"Please...please, tell me how to help you." she begged softly.

He smiled wanly for her benefit. "I'm starving...this hotel have any room service?"

She snorted a laugh that was more sob than anything else. "Soup...I'll bring you some soup." she smiled, relieved to be able to do anything remotely useful.

"Can you...send Bobby up?"

"Sure, I'll get him." She returned to the room below, informing the trio of somber men in the livingroom that Dean was awake and requesting food.

Sam smiled at Bobby. "His stomach always heals first."

"He wants to talk to you." she told Bobby. He went up as she busied herself with making something easy for him to eat.

* * *

><p>Bobby sat down beside him, reaching out to check on him. "Well; looks like you cheated the devil himself this time. Little close for my comfort, though."<p>

"No shit." Dean took a deep breath, needing to speak before he tired completely. He turned his frightened eyes to his old mentor. "Bobby, something's going on...something with Sam. I...I don't know yet, what it is, but I saw things... I can't remember alot of it, but it was more of what that demon was saying; like Sam plays some part in some plan they've got going, and I'm in the way somehow. Bobby, we've gotta talk to Dad."

Bobby swore. "Dean; if I knew how to reach him I'd haul him here by the short hairs. But I haven't heard from him and he doesn't answer my messages. But I know Missouri has talked to him, I'll call her. I don't know what to tell you about all this. Maybe it's just playing head-games. But the reality is that there's one more damned demon loose in the world, and looks like it's got it in for you. We'll just have to be watching for it from now on."

Dean was fading. "Well...nothing new I guess. Hell, who _isn't_ gunning for us right now?"

Bobby glanced at him with a wry grimace. "Listen, she's fixing some soup for you; can you try to stay awake for that? You really need something in you."

Dean nodded, eyelids heavy. "Better hurry up."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sam brought the mug of soup up. He managed to get most of it into him, adding a couple of painkillers, at the end. He could tell Dean was hurting. He'd long since learned to look for clues in his features; the taut set of his jaw, the darkness around his eyes, rather than asking him how he felt.

Dean took them without complaint, and after a few minutes he drifted off again. Sam watched him for a little while. Another crisis weathered...another scar or two gained. He rubbed his eyes and sighed miserably. He felt uneasy; there was more to this one...this wasn't so simple this time. It wasn't just a case of _kick evil's butt and move on_. He knew the demon had told Dean things, and Dean had seen more of it in his sickness; terrible things that clearly frightened him. And Dean didn't scare easily.

And he knew that Bobby was privy to some of it, but the two of them would never divulge anything they felt was best kept quiet. Sam was out of the official loop yet again, a position that frustrated and infuriated him. These bloody secrets were going to bring all of them down someday_. Look at Dad..._he thought bitterly. _Everything_ was a secret with him; so much so that they couldn't even talk to him now, when they needed to so damned much. He sighed again and got up. There was nothing more to be gained by sitting and watching his brother sleep.

* * *

><p>Dean was away now, somewhere comfortably far away, but Sam was stuck here, in the house of the girl who had brought this trouble to them; with a worried and secretive Bobby and a confused and questioning old priest downstairs. He wished he was a capable drinker. Dean was adept at using whatever was being poured to chase away the demons for a while. All Sam ever got was a case of heaves and a headache. He finally rejoined the happy little circle downstairs.<p>

"He had his soup. I gave him something for pain, and he's sleeping now." Sam said, pre-empting their questions. He sat down heavily. He was feeling suddenly angry, his emotions threatening to bubble over. "Look, Bobby; I know there's a lot more going on here. That freaking thing came here for Dean; it's obvious. So what the hell's going on?"

Bobby was caught off guard. Father Patrick sat watching expectantly, and Laura stopped and turned towards them. All eyes were on the elder hunter. He saw that Sam was in no state to accept platitudes, and it was time they all had a serious dialogue. "Sam; hell, I don't know yet. I swear I don't. I'm not gonna lie to you; that demon came here with an agenda, one that had nothing to do with Laura, and everything to do with Dean...and you."

Laura sat down, needing to hear what came next. Father Paddy swallowed his remaining brandy and leaned forward. Poor Bobby felt suddenly under siege. "Look, all I'm saying is this... Laura; yeah, it was your prayers for revenge that opened the door to this thing, but it was just waiting for any excuse to break out. If it hadn't been you, it would've been somebody else. And it seems it had a mission; one that involved taking Dean out, so it made you believe he was responsible for your tragedy. Don't feel bad; these things exist to manipulate and deceive, it's their purpose. And they revel in watching humanity fall to their level. It got more entertainment from making you do the dirty work than it would ever have gotten by doing it itself. We're just a bunch of freaking puppets to them." He downed his drink and continued. "This demon is out now. It's not the first, and it's not the last, but this particular one wants your brother dead, Sam. So we need to find out why, and we need to watch out for it. And we need to stop it."

Laura had a trembling hand held against her mouth. "You're...you're saying it...it might have come here anyway? Even if I hadn't-"

Bobby cut her off. "Laura; that thing was coming here no matter what. You were a convenient key to the door, but it woulda found some other way. Your family tragedy was a terrible thing...but there are hundreds...millions of tragedies every day. And every one of those have people begging for closure, or revenge, or whatever. They all cry and pray for help, but they don't get it. Not unless there's some bigger motive; something else to be gained. I haven't figured out yet how heaven works, but I know this; hell works to its own advantage, and nothing else."

There was stony silence in the room. No one knew what to say.

But Sam wasn't satisfied yet. "Yeah, ok, fine...the demon came for Dean. But _why? _There's hundreds like us; hunters, people who fight these evils. Why Dean?"

Bobby wasn't ready to discuss anything more, not without more information. "Sam, I don't know. None of us do yet. We need to find your Dad; he needs to know this, and he sure as hell needs to share what he knows with the rest of us. Until then, all we can do is keep our eyes sharp for any clues and any threats. That's about all I can tell you right now..." He sat back and rubbed a hand over his grizzled chin, his eyes suddenly weary, and pained. "I wish to hell I had something more useful for you."

After a time of silence, Father Patrick spoke up. He rose and addressed them formally. "Gentlemen; Laura; this has been an eye-opening evening. I don't know where to go from this. I thought I knew everything, I thought I could make things better with all the memorized prayers and ceremonies I've relied on all these years...but now..."

Bobby rose with him. "Don't, Father. Don't doubt what's good. Please; bless us, bless everyone who needs it; and keep doing it. We need that. Just because you're aware now that there's more evil than you ever knew before, doesn't mean it diminishes the good. We need you now more than ever. We need people like you, fighting on our side of the gate. Otherwise we're all screwed."

Father Patrick thought about that, and nodded solemnly. He made a sign of the cross and blessed all those in the room. "Well then...I pray that you all have the blessed protection of God. Forgive me, I'm tired; I need to leave this for a while. I will go now and bless that young warrior upstairs, and then I must go home." He sighed, turning his gaze to Laura, and taking her hand. "Laura, as I've said before, I say to you again. You were not responsible for what happened to Karin and your Dad. God knows it. You have to believe it. And now you must see how your life has to change. Find a way to forgive yourself; before you, or anyone else, comes to further grief."

She looked down, and the old man headed upstairs.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Poor Father Paddy was exhausted, and he was winded by the time he'd reached the top of the stairs. At 78, he thought he was going to be spending his golden years smiling benignly at newlyweds, pouring water on fussy babies' foreheads and snoozing peacefully in his comfortable chair while younger priests said mass. He never envisioned that he'd be beseeching God to pay more attention, to chase away the devil's henchmen from these strangers, and from poor Laura Brennen, who had suffered enough already. He turned the corner and entered the room where Dean slept. There was already a chair beside the bed, and he lowered his stiff frame into it and sat, watching the pale and battered young man breathe quietly. Everything in Father Patrick's ecclesiastical experience had been mild, benign, and, truthfully told; fairly passionless. He had never experienced either the joy and elation of god's good...nor had he born witness to the direct efforts of Hell. He knew there was plenty of evidence of both in the world, but most cases were simply part of the human condition. But in terms of personal experience, he had to admit that he was fairly virginal. It was a rude and late awakening. And he was pushing eighty. He wasn't sure he was up to the challenge anymore. Maybe forty years ago, but now...well, what could he do now...?

This young man in front of him had been touched by the hand of the devil himself. It wasn't a metaphor this time, it was reality. And those people downstairs...they expected that he would know how to fix it, to protect them...that somehow Father Paddy had the answers.

Well, he didn't. He sighed and held his crucifix in his hand. It was old; the details at its edges worn smooth and featureless now. A gift from his mother, when he was ordained. He'd retrieved it from the tub, afterward. This thing in his hand, along with his recital of words he'd barely felt, had warded off the poisons that hell had thrust upon this man. It worked its goodness in the most tangible way he'd ever seen. And Father Patrick had no idea _why,_ and that disturbed him to his core.

He had to see. He raised Dean's blankets and peered at his wound. It was ugly enough; ragged and fresh, albeit neatly stitched again. He placed his hand beside it, gently, and closed his eyes. Dean shifted and frowned, with a soft moan of complaint. The old man almost pulled his hand away again, but he didn't. Instead, he willed healing and health to flow from his touch, he prayed and listened for an answer.

Dean opened his eyes in alarm- "What...what are you doing?" he whispered, fearful and groggy.

Father Paddy opened his own and smiled tentatively. "Easy, son...just a blessing. I'm told you fight on our side."

Dean nodded. "Cold hands..."

"Sorry, I should have thought of that.." Father Paddy did pull back this time, feeling worse than useless now.

Dean knew what the old man needed. He wanted some sort of affirmation...he wanted Dean to tell him that what he'd devoted his life to really did make a difference. And Dean knew he was the only one who could do that for him now. He was tired and he hurt, but he understood what some honest words would mean to him. "You're the one, aren't you? You blessed the water..." he said quietly.

Father Patrick nodded.

"You know, you saved my life."

The old man looked down at his hands, unsure. Dean could see his doubt. He gathered himself to continue. "You never had to know before, did you...? The power you have...it's not just signed on for something way bigger than you ever knew. It's all real; the devil, Hell, maybe Heaven too; I don't know... But they're not all just fairytales...not just tools to keep us morons all in line. " He had to pause, as dizziness threatened to derail his train of thought. Father Patrick leaned forward, willing him to finish. Dean drew a deep breath and continued. "Father, you've done it right all along; keep doing it the same. Leave the battles to people like me. You need to keep people listening, that's your job. Keep them optimistic. The devil can't get in if there's nobody inviting him."

Father Patrick looked at Dean for a moment or two, his rheumy eyes watering. "Bless, you, son.." he whispered.

"Same to you."

The old priest stared at him for a moment, then nodded. He got up and made his way back downstairs. Dean smiled wryly to himself and drifted off.

* * *

><p>Bobby drove the priest home. He was going to the motel afterward, to collect their things. The smaller truck would have to be retrieved later.<p>

Sam stayed behind, he wouldn't have left Dean now, under any circumstance. He was much more sympathetic toward Laura now, but he wasn't about to leave his brother solely in her hands. He sat in awkward silence with her. She fidgeted unhappily, keenly aware of her guilt in all this, and his opinion of her. "What will you do, now, Laura..?" he asked gently. It surprised her.

She looked at him and simply shrugged. "I ...don't know, Sam. I really can't think, right now. I spent the last few years getting into the force, for all the wrong reasons. And It's obvious to me now, that I'm more screwed up than ever, over Dad and Karin. I don't know where to go or what to do now."

Sam leaned forward. "Laura, will you let me give you some qualified advice?"

She nodded. -_why not-?_

"Look, I've seen what it does to people; the lack of closure. My Dad, and Dean; neither of them ever got past my mother's death, and they're obsessed with finding and fighting the demon responsible. It rules their lives to the point where they will probably never live normally again. And in their case it'll probably kill them one way or another." He looked away for a moment, his composure threatened by his own bitter emotions. But he turned to her and urged, "You've got to find away to leave this behind, Laura. Get away from this place, get away from being a cop. Find a good shrink. But believe me, this will rule you, and you'll be miserable forever if you don't. Trust me, I have to watch it everyday."

Her throat was so tight that she couldn't answer him. She knew he was right.

* * *

><p>Bobby returned with their things. Laura assured them that they were more than welcome to stay as long as needed. Sam was all for hitting the road, but Bobby wanted them to return with him, and he knew that the drive back to his own place was long and tiresome, and Dean wouldn't have the benefit of lying down for the trip, either in the Ranger or the ramp-truck. He wasn't up to that yet; he needed rest and quiet. Bobby had seen Dean through injury before, but he'd never seen him so weak and spent as now. And this whole issue that had arisen involving Sam...he didn't know what to make of it. He'd called John repeatedly, cursing everytime he got that damned voicemail. -<em>stupid SOB- <em>he thought angrily. -_Quit chasing your own demons and look after your boys-!_

* * *

><p>Laura did her best to be a gracious host, she made sure everyone was well fed and comfortable. But Sam knew that she needed space to get her own life sorted out; he'd left for Stanford for that very reason himself. He snorted at the irony; he was further than ever from sorting out his own mess.<p>

Dean strengthened slowly. He was normally a quick healer, but the infection that gripped him kept him down. The other-worldly part was cleansed by the holy water, but the remaining illness was part of this world and had to run its natural course. It all made for a household of grim, and unhappy people.

Laura had taken sick leave. She threw herself into tending Dean. Sam found it hard to find time alone to talk to him, she was with him so much. He understood that; it was her only way to keep her guilt at bay. He could hear them talking, quietly, seriously, for long periods. Both of them were pretty damaged; he hoped they could at least help each other find some equilibrium. As for himself, he was left with a nagging uncertainty now, more than ever. Their mother's death had set all of them on this bitter road, and it was enough in itself to do that. But now, there were whispers and secrets about demons, plans...about him, and nobody was willing to share what they knew or guessed. It left him hanging in a limbo that he feared was only going to be relieved by some future tragedy. He couldn't wait to get the hell away from here.

* * *

><p>Finally, Dean decided he was up to travel. He wasn't, of course, but there was no arguing with him. He was strong enough to be a stubborn force and they gave up trying. Sam supported him as he got dressed. He could feel him leaning heavily against him, and more than once he felt him slip a little, and feared he was about to drop. But he stayed up, and got himself dressed warmly and Sam helped him downstairs.<p>

Bobby looked up from his reading, pleased to see him up. "Hey, look who's decided to join the living! Getting bored of being waited on hand and foot?"

Dean gave him a wry smile and sat carefully on the sofa. "Man, I feel like a freaking old man. How do you put up with it, Bobby?"

Bobby leveled a weary glare at him, but he smiled. Dean leaned back against the sofa, tiring already. It irked him; he wanted to feel normal, he'd waited long enough. "Sam; all the stuff packed?"

"Uh huh. Bobby and I picked up the Ranger so he'll drive his truck and you and I will follow him, unless you want to drive with him."

"No. I'll stick with you. If I ride with Bobby I'll have to be nice the whole time."

"Oh, this'll be a fun trip." Sam grumbled.

Bobby had been talking to Laura while the boys were upstairs. He reiterated Father Patrick's's advice and tried to set her mind at ease over everything. It was kind of him, and the forgiveness she'd gotten from the three of them would be an important part of her forgiving herself.

* * *

><p>At last it was time. Bobby loaded everything into his truck while Sam helped Dean get into the smaller vehicle. They said their goodbyes to Laura, and she watched sadly as they drove away through the fresh dusting of snow. She'd seen her demon and it had changed her life. She knew it was unlikely she would ever experience anything like it again, thank god. But those people would. She was saddened, knowing their troubles were probably never going to end. She sighed and looked around her silent and empty home. She a life to find. She had alot of work to do.<p>

* * *

><p>"How are you doing; are you ok?" Sam asked.<p>

Dean sat, hunched, and grimacing with every bump the truck drove over. It was hardly a luxury ride; he was sure the tires must be solid, either that or square. "I'm fine, Sam." he lied. He wasn't. He wasn't going to be fine until he knew what the hell was going on with Sam, and he'd fixed it. And he was deeply hurt that his dad hadn't returned any of their calls, especially while he was sick. He would have been worried that he was lying dead or something but Bobby had let it slip that he was in contact with Missouri regularly. He was relieved to know that, but it didn't help his feeling that he, his own son; was second rate. After an hour he was too tired to stay sitting and he curled up uncomfortably against the door.

"Dean, you can rest your head on me. I won't tell anybody, I promise." Sam offered, rolling his eyes.

To his surprise, Dean did. "Just keep that camera away or you'll be eating it." he growled.

Sam smiled as he heard Dean slip immediately into a tired sleep.

His leg had fallen asleep by the time they reached Bobby's. "Hey, Droolio; we're here."

Dean groaned and sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes and wiping the side of his face with embarrassment. The drab and decrepit vista of Bobby's kingdom lay before him. It was a welcome sight.

* * *

><p>The three avoided anything stressful that evening, they needed to keep it light for a change.. Instead they played some serious poker and got decently loaded on Bobby's cheap, rough beer. Bobby was surprised that Dean stayed up with them, but Sam wasn't. Sam also knew that once Bobby had retired for the night he was probably going to have to carry Dean up to bed. He took his arm over his shoulder and pulled him up.<p>

"No, Sam. I wanna sleep down here; just get me a blanket, I'll crash on the couch."

"Don't argue, Dean, you'll be more comfortable in bed."

"No, I'm serious, Sammy. It's warmer down here; I'm taking the couch."

Sam sighed. "Fine, stupid. I'll get you some blankets. Go lay down."

Dean had his reasons. He hadn't told either of them, but since the demon had touched him he'd been suffering nightmares; vague frightening images that he'd seen while he was sick but couldn't remember clearly. The last thing he wanted was to have one of them come running into his room if he yelled in his sleep. At Laura's it hadn't been an issue as his room was the only one upstairs besides hers, the other two had been sleeping in the downstairs den. His face reddened, remembering the times she'd come in the middle of the night, disheveled and worried, when he'd awakened in a sweating panic, crying out in fear. He'd felt stupid and weak - _childish_. He hoped they'd stop soon.

Sam returned and tucked several layers over him.

"Thanks, Ma."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't wander around; this place is a deathtrap in the dark. 'Night, Dean"

"ditto."

* * *

><p>Bobby had trouble sleeping. He tried everything, but at three thirty, when his eyes remained wide open and his mind refused to quiet, he decided to go to the kitchen to pour himself something a little stronger than the beer he'd consumed earlier. He peeked in at Sam, satisfied that his soft snoring was an accurate indication that he was asleep, and checked Dean's room next. It was empty; the bed seemed undisturbed. He'd gone ahead of the brothers when the evening wound down and he didn't know that Dean had chosen to remain below. He crept down the stairs, shushing Rumsfeld when he growled at the disturbance. He passed through the livingroom, where Dean had chosen the couch, and switched on the kitchen light. Rumsfeld came in behind him, knowing that he would get a treat if he played his cards right. Bobby pulled his whiskey from the cabinet over the fridge and poured a healthy few fingers into a water glass, sighing with exhaustion. He hated the nights when sleep eluded him. But whiskey always helped, and he downed half of it, following it with half a glass of water.<p>

The dog whined with anticipation.

"Ok, dog; you win." He retrieved a couple of ham slices from the fridge and sat at the table, tearing them into bits and tossing them to the waiting canine mouth. Rumsfeld snapped them up, fairly smiling. When the bits were gone, Bobby shook his head and showed his empty hands to the beggar at his feet. "All gone."

Rumsfeld huffed in disappointment and wandered back upstairs.

Bobby sat and thought about the past days. Once again, he and the Winchester boys had shared a difficult experience. That was par for the course; he would always come to their aid, just as he knew they would do so for him. They shared a common objective. But he was bitterly disappointed in his friend John. He was in a constant knot of worry over it; he knew John had gone underground after learning some key information about the demon, about the reasons behind Mary's death. It was something huge, something terrible. But it didn't excuse his abandonment of the boys. He sighed unhappily. John was hardly objective, ever since his wife was taken. He'd been more a grim and relentless instructor than a father to those boys. - _Too bad Sam wasn't successful in escaping to Stanford_- he thought. At least one of them could have been spared the horrors.

And that brought him to Dean. Tough, uncompromising, bull-headed...and if things continued as they were; destined to die tragically out of turn. He loved that jackass like his own. That's why he was an insomniac now. He had witnessed Dean's suffering, and he was sure; absolutely and miserably, that more was going to be his lot. John had drilled into Dean the relentless need to protect his brother, but no one was really able to do the same for him. Bobby knew Sam loved his brother, but he just didn't have the instincts. He sat in the dim light, wishing he could turn back the clock.

His musings were interrupted by a sound from the livingroom. He came in and sat beside Dean, waiting for his old eyes to adjust to the gloom. When he could see, he touched a gentle hand to Dean's head. Dean was frowning; fretting in his sleep, and sweaty, but Bobby was relieved to feel a normal temperature. Bobby smoothed the damp hair away from his face, hoping to chase away whatever was vexing him in his dreams. It didn't work; he watched helplessly as Dean grew more agitated, mumbling against his terrors. He tried to break him out of the cycle, gently talking to him, assuring him it was all ok. Suddenly, Dean bolted upright; wide-eyed, and choking back a cry.

"It's ok, son, it's Bobby. You're alright." he soothed, with his hands on his shoulders. Dean stared at him, bewildered and frightened, his breath coming in short panicked gasps.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, Dean, you're ok. You're dreaming, it's just a nightmare."

"Oh..." Still shaking slightly, Dean settled back against his pillow. He stayed wide-eyed.

Bobby reached past him and turned on a table lamp. He regarded him critically. There were lines of moisture trailing away from his eyes. He still looked shell-shocked. "Son...you ok?" he asked softly.

Dean took a shaky breath, trying to regain a grip on his emotions. He nodded. "I'm ok...really, I am. I just...I keep having these dreams, images...I don't know. Just crap from when I was seeing all that hell shit, when I was sick. I can't ever remember anything specific; guess that's a good thing." He was silent for a few moments, still staring at his fading ghosts. Bobby waited for him to continue. He turned to the older man with a raw and vulnerable expression, still gripped by the emotion of his nightmare. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Bobby, there's something big coming... It's bad, and I don't know how to fix it 'cause I don't know what it is."

Bobby put a hand on his shoulder, with his usual reassuring squeeze. He kept it there for a moment. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to tell him that it was nothing; that everything would be alright, and that dreams were just meaningless spasms of imagination brought on by exhaustion. But he couldn't. There _was _something going on. John knew it; he was in the thick of it. And now Dean had been given some glimpse of it, but only enough to drive him nuts with worry. They all had that worry now; a shapeless, vague sense that there was a threat growing, one that revolved around them all, and one where Sam was somehow the eye of that storm.

He did the next best thing. "Listen to me, ok? Whatever's coming, and with the way we live, hell, it could be anything; you have to know that you are never alone. I know your Dad loves you boys. And he would've come for you, while you were hurting, if he could have. And he will; he'll come and shed some light on this thing. But in the meantime I am here. I want you to promise me that you'll lean on me when you need. I know how things work in that screwed-up head of yours. You carry the weight of everything on your shoulders, I know. And it ain't fair, or right, but that's the way it is. But whatever the future has planned for us sorry bastards, don't you dare struggle with it by yourself, ok?"

Dean rubbed the moisture from his tired eyes and nodded in silence.

Bobby continued, quietly. "So we've had some glimpses of something we don't understand. For all we know the devil's just yanking our chain. But it doesn't matter, ok? Cuz we're here in it together and we're just gonna plow ahead like it's nothing. Until we hear different, that's all we can do. It ain't gonna help anybody to obsess over it, right? Take a cue from that screwed up sonofabitch dad of yours."

Dean sighed. "Yeah."

"Ok. Good. Don't you forget that." He got up and poured two more whiskeys, and sat with Dean while they finished them. Dean's shockiness was wearing off with the comforting warmth of the . It was replaced now by an acute embarrassment; this was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid by sleeping on the dusty and uncomfortable scratched his head, feeling sheepish.

"Sorry to get you up, Bobby. Didn't think I was going to yell that loud."

"You didn't. You hardly made a peep, I was already up. I came down for a snort 'cuz I was counting cobwebs myself anyway. Now how about it; why don't you ditch that flea-bag couch and get your butt into the room I made up for you? You'll sleep better. And hell, your dignity's shot now anyway; won't matter what you holler now."

Dean shot him a wounded look, then realized Bobby was teasing him. He shook his head with a wry smile and followed him upstairs.

* * *

><p>They spent a couple of weeks with Bobby. He and Dean made real headway with the row of wrecks that Bobby had deemed worthy of rebuilding. They got six junkers to a saleable state. Bobby was enjoying having another gifted grease monkey around. Rumsfeld was a good listener but he was pretty useless in all other regards. And the physical work was good for Dean; it kept his mind off all the worries, and he was so tired at night that the dreams couldn't gain any foothold. And he healed quickly, once he was free of infection.<p>

Sam wasn't interested in spending his time with them in the yard. It wasn't that he disliked the mechanical work so much; he was just tired of their jabs and teasing over his lack of skill. That was _their_ little club, and they could have it. Instead, he rounded up some boards and built some decent shelving, to try to organize Bobby's vast but chaotic library, achieving some real success. It also gave him the opportunity to go through the collection of ancient, dangerous books; trying to find something, anything, that could shed some light on their recent experiences. He was ultimately disappointed. But he did find Bobby's vacuum cleaner, hidden under a pile of paper. He put it to good use and Bobby was surprised to rediscover that his livingroom carpet was originally a shade of blue, instead of the grey it had been for longer than he cared to admit..

By the end of the hiatus Dean had forgotton some of his trauma and his feet were getting itchy. He really needed to spend some quality hours in the Impala; nothing was as much a balm to his soul as feeling the steady rumble of her powerful engine as he put miles and miles between himself and whatever weighed heavy on his mind. He figured the heat was off somewhat by now. The cops would have moved on to more current crises. But he knew it still wasn't safe to simply tour around in it; better to just point it in a direction and drive hard until he was somewhere that he didn't have to worry about being so much of a target. And it wasn't fair to Sam, leaving him stuck here in Bobby's grimy little paradise. Poor kid spent all his time cleaning or cooking, and all he saw day in day out was that sea of wrecked cars.

And then there was Dad. Dean knew he was without any tips regarding his whereabouts. He knew he was going to have to talk to Missouri in person to get anywhere. He frowned as his tender scar gave him a twinge, and he pressed a hand to it absent-mindedly. It seemed to do that more when he was tense, and if he stayed here much longer he was going to get progressively more anxious to be on the road. And he also knew from experience that it made him pretty hard to be around.. He talked with Sam that evening.

"Yeah...I think we should probably get moving."

Sam agreed, relieved that he didn't have to be the one suggesting it. "I mean, Bobby's been great; we wouldn't be so solid now if it weren't for him. But I need to see something different before my brain turns into you going to break it to him?"

"Yeah, guess so. So when; in the morning?"

"That works for me. I'll pack our stuff. I take it you guys fixed the car window?"

"Yeah, first thing. It's tuned up and ready to go. I'll go talk to him."

Dean found Bobby under the chassis of something grey and crumpled, that may once have been a volvo wagon. He directed his conversation to the pair of legs sticking out. Bobby heard him out, and then rolled himself from under it and sat up. "You're sure? You know you can stay here as long as you want, no bother to me."

Dean sighed. "I know, man. But I'm starting to get worried that we're pushing the odds by staying so long. Somebody's bound to ID us at some point and I just couldn't live with it if you got dragged down along with us. Besides, Sam's getting stir-crazy."

Bobby snorted. "Bullshit. _You_ are. I know you, Dean; I've watched you getting wound up and snappy last couple of days. I know you need to feel road under your wheels."

Dean looked down. "Aw man, I'm sorry. You've been a great, putting us up, and everything else..."

"Don't apologize, Dean. I get where you're coming from. But you have to promise me this; I'm your first call when things feel like they're about to squash you, they're so heavy. Just like we talked about, ok?"

Dean met his gaze. "Yeah. Yeah, I promise."

Bobby got up with a groan and gave a hand to Dean, who pulled him to his feet. He dusted himself off. "Well; go tell that brother of yours to cook something up good. I'm going out on a beer run. If I only have one more opportunity to fleece you two suckers, I'm gonna bleed you dry at cards tonight. Be warned."

"Oh it is on!" Dean snorted.

* * *

><p>Sam outdid himself with the odd mishmash of things from Bobby's fridge. And Bobby had unusually bad luck; he had to fork over more than two hundred dollars to a gloating Dean. Of course, he'd done it on purpose. And the beer went down fast and easy. It was perfect, loose and carefree, and for a few blessed hours they could forget who they were and what horrors bound them together.<p>

* * *

><p>As the brothers stood in the cold grey light of morning, Bobby shook their hands. "Boys, it was a pleasure. Sam; try to keep that idiot in one piece for at least a little while. And Dean; don't forget your promise."<p>

They mumbled their affirmatives and settled in the car. Dean revved it a few times as Bobby smiled appreciatively. And they headed away.

Bobby stood for a moment, watching the car as it disappeared towards uncertainty. "Good luck, boys..." he said softly.

* * *

><p>-End.<p> 


End file.
